


Ain't That America?

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 70s Queen, A Day At The Races Tour, Affectionate Insults, Album tour, American food is confusing to Brits sometimes lol, And also Chrissie but she doesn't feature sorry, And he gets some because John is observant, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety is a bitch guys, Band Fic, Band as Family, Band boys taking care of each other, Banter, Bars and Pubs, Bickering, Board Games, Breakfast, Brian May is a nerd, Brian May is a sweet man, Brian May is so kind to other people but not to himself, Brian Needs a Hug, Brian and John have a sweet friendship that should be talked about more, Brian and Roger are bros and they understand each other without needing words, Brian hurts himself and Deacy gets paternal, Brian is a perfectionist, Brian is going through some stuff, Brian is so polite, Brian is very much aware of how physically attractive Roger is, Brotherly Affection, But Bri has got the soothing voice thing down, But the boys love him, But things will work out I promise, But we still love him, Confessions, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deacy isn't the best at putting on makeup so the other boys help him, Declarations Of Love, Diners, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Everybody wants to snuggle with Deacy, Fist Fights, Fred and Bri are soulmates too, Freddie Mercury is a class act and also incredibly naughty I love it, Freddie adores Brian, Freddie is fabulous and he cares, Gen, Haircuts, He's not afraid to mix it up, Heavy Drinking, Hockey, Homophobic Language, Honestly all four of these boys will do anything for each other, Hotels, Hugs, I Don't Even Know, Innuendo, It truly warms my heart, Jim Beach is band dad, Jim Beach is the best ok, John Deacon is a sensitive soul, John Deacon is a shy snarky sweetheart, John and Brian are philosophical people, John gets talkative when he's tipsy, John idolises Freddie, John is painfully shy, John takes cues from Freddie, Massage, Minor Injuries, Minor John Deacon/Veronica Tetzlaff, Nah just kidding there are winding mountain roads in Kentucky, National Hockey League, Nausea, People can be arseholes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Philosophy, Pillow Fights, Platonic Kissing, Platonic Soulmates, Protective Brian May, Protective Freddie Mercury, Protective Jim, Protective Roger Taylor (Queen), Reconciliation, References to Brian's parents, References to Depression, References to abuse because Roger's father is despicable, References to sleeping around, References to the Beatles, Rock and Roll, Rog and Freddie adore each other - they're soulmates, Rog and John are so giggly together, Rog knows nothing about hockey but Bri picks it up, Rog loves the hell out of Brian -to the moon and back (just had to make a space reference haha), Rog you naughty boy, Roger Taylor is a competitive lad, Roger bout to fight, Roger is a badass, Roger is a fairy child and you won't change my mind, Roger is a player ok, Roger is so sassy, Roger is the biggest flirt in the world, Scrabble, Sleepy Cuddles, Slurs, Smoking, So is Freddie, Social Anxiety, Suspicion of John Reid based on past managerial struggles, Swearing, The band has Freddie's back though, The long and winding road that leads..., There's so much love between all four of these men, Through the mountains of the moon into the Valley of the Shadow, Tour Bus, Trust Issues, Vomiting, Well. At least he's more talkative than when not, What Have I Done, Who can blame them though? Not me, honestly same though, so much, which upsets me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 20:36:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18431633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: "The Midwest could get on your nerves because of the sheer repetition of everything and every town is so much like the others. And you did feel like you were in a cultural vacuum sometimes. All we had was bad televisions and vibrating beds --even worse-- and, ah, bad food. But it was still a lot of fun, haha. There was no sex and drugs and that... there wasn't really much sex--well, there wasn't much drugs." - Roger Taylor(Or, while on the 1977 world tour for their albumA Day At The Races, the members of Queen learn a few things of interest about the American Midwest. And about themselves.)





	1. There's A Young Man in a T-shirt...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On one of the first days of their Midwest portion of the 1977 tour, two of the band members share some thoughts with one another.
> 
> Warning for a bit of anxiety-produced panic. It gets worked out though I promise

Roger is off on a conquest their first night on this leg of the tour, never mind the fact they'd flown into Indianapolis before their show and ignoring the possibility of jet lag; and Freddie is most certainly dazzling the patrons at some club or another. So it is up to Brian and John to sort out their hotel room. Both are less worried about Fred when he is in a small town, or what passes for a small town because the Midwest is not known for its wild atmosphere and wilder haunts. They have New York for that. The boys have done in the mere compunction of worrying about Roger. He goes wherever and with whomever he wishes, and like a prince of Faerie never seems any the worse for it. He shines as he moves through the world like a silver sixpence coin buffed to shimmer along guitar strings underneath stage lights. 

Brian lets out a heavy sigh and pushes back his curls. John smiles with his entire face, wagging his eyebrows at the other as they enter the low-ceilinged low-cost inn that their manager had stressed was the only one in Indianapolis they can afford. John in particular holds some doubts about that, in no small part due to what had happened with their previous manager. But as per usual he keeps his doubts to himself. Best not to speak unless he knows what to say; otherwise he simply ought to dry up.

Brian takes the key for their room with a gracious inclination of his head and a polite smile for the receptionist, saying "Thank you very much. I think we can get our own bags, yeah?" He glances back at John, who nods. "Yes, but that's very kind of you to to offer to bring them up. Thank you. Have a lovely evening." 

John nods and smiles along. He is grateful to Brian (in a painful sort of way) for being his mouth piece of sorts, able to speak the sentiments that John doesn't voice but nevertheless feels deeply. He has never been a talker in any aspect or avenue, and being part of a band is so far out of his comfort zone (having joined on a whim, thinking it'd make a good hobby, really, but never a real career) that he is exponentially grateful to Brian, who speaks for him; Roger who breaks him up with laughter and then joins right in; and most of all to Freddie who takes his little life and helps him soar, granting some sort of small strength that breaks John out of his shell--or at the very least is able to crack it. John knows he will never stop owing them all for this as long as he lives.

But right now he is a trifle less grateful to their manager. Brian leads the way down a dimly-lit hallway over creaking floors with faded carpeting to a room that has chipped paint on the door. Not something anyone but Freddie would notice, so of course John notices too. Brian puts the key in the knob, it gets stuck, and putting one foot flush against the wood the lanky guitarist grips the knob and jabs his right shoulder against the door, black curls swinging in his exertion.

It pops open to reveal a room with heavy curtains, two low beds, one table, a chair, and a tiny television, the screen of which looks like an ancient goldfish bowl and the rotary knob on the bottom front only goes to four channels. "...Right," John drops his bag upon the floor. "Home sweet home."

Brian smiles. Grimaces, really-- he had tweaked his shoulder when hitting the door in. Trotting over to the window, he puts his own bag down and bends low to peer out, rays of late afternoon sunlight catching hues in midnight hair and along the lean curve of his thin olive-skinned cheek. More than half of the window is obscured by the shadow of another building behind.

"Great," Bri lets the cloth fall back into place, long fingers skittering like pale spiders across the dark cloth and then across his face. He presses their tips to the bridge of his nose and turns around, other hand slapping against the side of one leg before he pulls his Old Lady off his back and lays her gently on the nearer bedspread. "I hope we at least have a camp bed in here for Rogie to kip on if he even comes back tonight." He looks over as John opens the door to and enters the loo. "... How's the view in there?"

"Bloody awful," John returns. "They only gave us one set of soaps."

"Eesh. Fred's not going to stand for that," Brian tutted. Picking at the tawdry cloth of the bedspread, he inquires "Does any of this...?"

"--Injure my delicate sensibilities beyond repair?" John comes out of the bathroom smirking a little. "Well it's certainly not the penthouse, but we'll just have to make the most of it, I suppose." He leans one arm high against the doorframe and nods at the shelf alongside their tiny TV. "Still, this room has one thing going for it."

Brian sits at last and roughs up his hair a bit before smoothing it out as best he can. "...Yeah? And what's that?"

His grin broader and more real now, John bends and opens a low door that happens to reveal several bottles of liquor. "... It's got a minibar."

Brian stares at him for a moment that stretches so long that John's smile begins to slip away and he feels sweat prickling at the edges of his hair. Had he said something wrong? He should never have suggested drinking; Bri probably just wants to get some sleep. But then the gangly guitarist stands and searches out a pair of glasses, finding some on the table. He holds them out wordlessly, an answering smile tugging at his lips for a brief moment. John carefully pours and takes one cup. Brian lifts the other.

"To a tour of the American Midwest."

"...To the Midwest," John articulates with the slightest trace of irony.

They clink their glasses together and drink down the booze. Brian's eyes water and he gasps at its burn, and John gulps down a hard swallow before filling the glasses again.

***

The two men end up sitting on the floor and talking. Well, Brian is talking. Leaning his long back against the broadside of the bed he swings the hand holding his drink around expansively as John had asked him something about the stars. "They seem so much clearer here," he said. "Bright, but also so far away. Why?"

And Brian had lit up and gone on for ages about vectors and latitude...or was it longitude? Or both? And the amount of man-made light as well as pollution that hangs in and obscures the sky over London, and John is nodding and going "Uhm-hm," honestly amazed by _Brian's_ sheer brightness as he uses and expresses his knowledge.

John finds himself enthralled, though he hardly understands a single thing the other is saying. "My God, Brian," he murmurs. "You know so MUCH. Why on Earth did you leave all that behind to do...this?" John crinkles his forehead, lowers his brows. "To be in a rock band? I have to be honest, I don't understand more than one percent of what you just said, but you do understand and you love it." John leans forward, bending his knees against his chest and tucking some hair behind one ear. He cannot hide, not now; he has to ask. "I just--I've wondered, because of loving what I do in engineering, why did you...how did you choose to stop being an astrophysicist?"

Brian sighs, leans his head back, and holds out his glass. "If you want that answer, I'll need more of this," he says. John nods and fills it. The other takes a long sip and closes his eyes.

"When I was a boy," Brian eventually said, "I listened to Patrick Moore's lectures on the Cosmos. There was one he did called 'The Sky at Night' which came on at ten pm after my bedtime and I begged my parents to let me stay up and watch it. Well, listen to it." He chuckles and John also huffs out a laugh, imagining specky little Brian begging to stay up. "They let me, and he was marvelous; painted a picture of the stars with his words, and not only that, but he played music." Brian taps one forefinger against his chin. His profile is illumined in John's sight as he speaks, face suffused by excitement, eyes bright with awe. "I wrote in, asking him the name of the pieces he always played at the beginning and end. I was only ten or eleven at the time, but he wrote back to me. On his typewriter, famously--he wrote back to every kid, bless him. Told me the name and I went out and bought the record. Ever since that piece has represented the cosmos to me." Shifting his limbs and setting his still nearly-full glass down beside him, Brian turns to directly face John. "Listen to this, though." He leans in, head tipping down and voice lowering as if about to share a secret. Deacy listens, rapt, unconsciously leaning forward as well until they are mere breaths apart.

"I think...what we do with music is akin to how we as humans view, and feel about, Space." Brian whispers. "With our music we're crying out into the depths, the void, and hoping that someone else will hear us and be inspired or feel heard as well. But in Space itself one can never know, because there is no sound out there." Bri's tone grows melancholy and John gulps. "It's a vacuum, cold and silent. But here, now, on this puny little planet third from the Sun, our songs _matter_. Music does so much, John, and we can do so much with it. Queen has a high purpose, I can feel it. And that--" he seems to grow self-conscious at this point, wilting a little, drawing his body backward and inward, folding himself up. "Well, it might be stupid, but that's why I'm here." Brian shakes his head a little, curls bouncing, and tucks his chin to his chest before taking another sip of his drink. "But I can't even talk to my family...," He twists as if to move away, taking another gulp of alcohol and putting his glass back down.

John reaches out and grabs Brian by both hands as the guitarist starts to move. He had not planned to do that, it just happened. Brian's skin is cool, almost cold, but his fingers are long and supple as ever--and strong as the bassist squeezes them in his own. Bri's eyes have widened as he kneels in a half-crouch like some penitent knight swearing renewed fealty to his liege lord. 

The younger man shakes his head and puffs out his lower lip. "No," he utters. So articulate, wow, amazing. Try again, John. "--You're not stupid, Brian. It isn't stupid, what you're saying. You found this...this passion and know what you want to do with it." He stops and then presses forward, speaking more than he has done yet. The dam broke then. "You have no idea how much I envy you. You all. I didn't even WANT this, not really," John confesses, eyes wide as he holds onto Brian's hands like they are a lifeline. "This--music is a hobby for me! Or it was, til we took off..." He chokes a bit, voice cracking. "And I love it, I'm excited, but I'm--it's right _terrifying_." He whimpers now, ducking his face, grey-green eyes glazing. "I don't know how to handle this, this life, fame...I work so hard just to go onstage and not...shut down. It's why I drink some..." Letting go of the other's hands at last and still not daring to look back up at him, John squeaks "You're amazing, Brian. You, Freddie, and Roger took a chance on me, for which I'm grateful." He looks up at last, face stricken and eyes huge: "But what if I let you down?"

His whole body is trembling and he feels like he cannot breathe. This is his biggest worry, his secret shame. It is why he needs a bar behind his amplifier onstage. To try to make him forget he is there with so many eyes on him, that he could make a mistake, cost the band and his friends, his _family_ , everything....

John feels his anxiety pulsing through his veins like poison, seizing up his chest and speeding up his heart. He feels himself start to panic, and then suddenly he is being gripped tight, held in place by a driving force, an immovable object. Brian. Brian is hugging him, holding John against his chest, those strong magical fingers threading through the bassist's long hair, telling him to breathe and stroking his head gently. His voice is a low soothing rumble against John's ear as the younger man buries his face against the lean man's chest. 

"Oh, Johnny. I understand the feeling of being a letdown, believe me." Something catches in Brian's voice, a hidden sorrow that exhorts John to look up at the other and he finds Bri looking back at him lovingly. John's heart performs a painful little leap. "But you've got to know something. You won't let us down. You couldn't possibly do that, because you're _here_. You didn't pick out this life for yourself, but you came along with us anyway. You took a chance on us, Deacy, and that's damn brave." John blinks in surprise. Brian doesn't typically swear like that, but his face is intense as he holds John back to continue looking into his eyes. "You're a phenomenal bassist; first time me and the boys heard you we could tell that. You continue to blow us away; and honestly, you couldn't know you'd be able to stand any of us, so I for one consider myself lucky ya decided to come along!"

"Right," John laughs and wipes his face before responding drily "...and the vote is still out on whether or not I can stand you." 

Brian's eyes bulge and then he chuckles, patting John's shoulders and relinquishing him at last. His features are affectionate as he lowers his eyes with a nod. "There, that's our Deacy. The sly boy we all love."

Brian pats his hair and then John grabs him tight, squeezing him round the shoulders with wiry strong arms. Brian winces as he pats John on the back and his fuzzy curls brush against the side of the bassist's face as he grunts "Sorry, John, it's just my--"

"It's your shoulder." John lets go as he feels the other's right arm jerk. He had hit it pretty hard on the door to open their room earlier, makes sense that it would begin to smart. "Want me to have a look at it?" Something in his tone has grown paternal, and Brian marvels at the change even as he, after a second of hesitation, nods. 

"Alright, go ahead." He turns around and bows his long back forward as John carefully eases the edge of his shirt off his shoulder. Brian's skin is pale but for a purplish bruise forming along the shoulder socket round to the blade, and the muscles at the juncture of his neck and back are knotted, tense. John carefully maneuvers his arm to check on mobility and then as Brian jumps, presses his cold glass gently against the blooming bruise.

Brian crosses his gangly legs as John begins kneading the tightness in his muscles away with deft strong fingers, working at the knots. The guitarist groans contentedly, tipping his head back with his curls splaying out around his face in a ragged soft halo. Brian does not realise he has started singing softly until John begins to hum along, his tone slightly rough and low but still on pitch. Brian has not heard it quite so clearly before. He feels warm and safe under John's ministering hands, even growing sleepy. Doubtless the booze is taking its toll along with his friend's gentle rubbing of circles on his back, having finished massaging his shoulder. John croons quietly to him as if he were a child, singing in that rough but also sweet voice. Some sort of lullaby.

John sings a tune he's sung to his son Robert in order to help him fall asleep. It soothes John as well at this moment, calming his spirit as had Brian's affectionate words. " _Too rah loo, rah loo roh, too rah loo, rah lie! Too rah loo, rah loo roh, hush now don't you cry..._ " He helps Brian stand and then pulls him onto the bed to stretch out after carefully moving the Red Special onto the table at its foot.

It is a marvel to witness Brian's ever-whirling intelligent mind slowly succumbing to sleep. He is ordinarily the last awake. As Brian settles against the pillows and John pulls a blanket over him, tucking it close around his shoulders, the long left hand of the guitarist shoots out and grasps John's wrist, holding tight.

"John," Brian whispers. His bright eyes are bleary from tiredness and likely from drink, but he stares hard at the other man all the same. "I want'cha t' know, even if you're scared--whenever things get bad, you've always got me. You know that." 

His words are slurring a little but he is dead serious, and John pats his hand, threading his fingers through Brian's and squeezing them, grateful. He can tell the older man means all of his words and that, in turn, means everything to him. "...Yes, I know, Brian. Thank you."

Brian lets out a relieved sigh and relinquishes John's fingers, rolling over onto his side. The bassist straightens his bedclothes and then picks up their now-empty cups, having downed the last of Brian's drink as well as his own.

Staggering a mite from excess, John rights himself and manages to sit upon the other bed. He waits to succumb to his own drowsiness and wonders whether or not Freddie and Roger will return before the night is out. He finds himself slowly relaxing as he glances over at the serene sleeping face of his dear friend Brian May.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I originally was going to include Peter "Phoebe" Freestone in this piece, but have learned through research that he didn't meet Freddie and the boys until two years later, in 1979. My apologies, but I want to be as historically accurate as possible so I hope readers understand
> 
> *"I listened to Patrick Moore's lectures on the Cosmos. There was one he did called 'The Sky at Night' which came on at ten pm after my bedtime and I begged my parents to let me stay up and watch it." = This entire paragraph comes from research. I listened to an audio interview Brian May recently did with the great Johnnie Walker where he talked about his fascination with space at a young age. Here is the link to the video of that interview I discovered on YouTube: https://youtu.be/NLlH97fDXes
> 
> *The lullaby John sings to Brian is an actual lullaby my own father sang to me. His name is John too, so make of that what you will ;P
> 
> Brian always seemed protective of John when they were doing interviews together, he would lean in and often gave little lowered-face smiles in response to John. I wanted to incorporate that here, hence I wrote him responding to John's confession by promising to look after him.  
> I also get the sense that John Deacon, as well as being an intensely quiet and private person, may have suffered some anxieties onstage and in the rockstar life itself; he never seemed to enjoy the trappings of fame, and I wonder if he was uncomfortable with them and if he worried about letting down his three closest friends.
> 
> Feel free to tell me what you think, I am working on more ideas to add to this piece. 
> 
> I love comments :)


	2. ...He Thinks He's Got It So Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie and Roger run into some trouble at a bar.
> 
> WARNING for derogatory slurs and violence below. Some people are just hateful and such hate unfortunately exists everywhere. If only everyone who has dealt with that could have a friend like Roger

Roger Taylor is not a fan of the Midwest.

Freddie is fine, of course; Freddie is always fine with a stage and fans and a colourful drink in his hand at a bar or a club somewhere. Anywhere. Yet here they are in bum fuck nowhere, and after hours of dancing and drinking and (in Roger's case) getting with girls, Fred is receiving some sidelong looks and mutterings at their current bar because of how he looks--hair too long, trousers too tight, shirt too sparkly--and "Go back to your fairy bower, fancy boy," a man's voice snarled.

Freddie does his best to exude grace and shoots the speaker a charming smile. He unfortunately has heard such things before. "Oh, you know my sign. Well _done_ , darling."

The man spits another slur aimed at Freddie into his drink and Roger, from his place beside a busty girl to whom he is currently talking, leans round to snap back "Watch it, arsehole."

"Oho!" The man snorts, taking in Roger's flushing face and large eyes. "Settle down there, princess. This doesn't concern you."

Roger clenches his fist atop the bar as Fred turns with an infinitesimal headshake towards him: "Don't make a fuss, Roger. I'm quite enjoying my cocktail, even in this environment." He sips his drink.

The man sneered at that, and another, a crony of his based upon their positions next to one another at the bar, leans forward and flicks one index finger from Freddie to Roger. "Well this isn't a homo-friendly environment, pal. So if I was you, I'd take your fag self and your little dyke friend over there right on home."

That's it. Roger throws himself from his chair as Freddie stiffens. "There's no need for that kind of language," Fred says. "Roger--"

"What the fuck did you just call us?!" Roger charges round the bar, face red in fury. His teeth are bared as he shoves the first man's chest. "Say it again!"

"Ah," the two look at each other and then back at Roger, eyes roving over his body; open shirt, tight pants. "You're a fairy too. Not a dyke." Which basically translates to, _you're a man, not a woman._ Roger has dealt with similar comments about his face and form on previous occasions, but that doesn't stop him from being incensed by the obvious cruelty behind these. His sexuality, and Freddie's, is none of their business. And then the bastard speaks to him again: "My mistake, Princess." He actually _grins_ and Roger belts him in the face with a flying fist, sending him tumbling backwards off his barstool to be just barely caught by his friend. Rubbing his jaw, the guy glares at Roger with ugly, piggish hatred in his eyes. 

The stocky drummer backs up a little and beckons. "Well come on, then. Think I'm a fairy, eh? So what?! Wanna teach me a lesson? I dare you to fucking try."

There is a split second of hesitation and then the second man lunges at Roger and grabs him in a flying tackle, a glass crashes to the floor and breaks, and Freddie picks his glass off the bar and breaks it over the top of the first man's head as he gets up with murder in his eyes. The girl who had been sitting with Roger screams as Rog and his assailant roll over one another on the floor, kicking and punching and pummelling. Each one tries to get leverage. Roger is strong and fast--thank god for doing drums--but the other is far taller and has eighty pounds on him, at least.

"Roger!!" Freddie cries as his friend is punched in the face repeatedly. His blond head snaps back before he kicks up into the other's stomach and then latches onto his neck like a burr as the man crouches, gasping for breath. Roger is squirming on his back as the guy stands up, turns to, and looks Freddie over. He smirks viciously at the singer before turning and ramming Roger into the heavy wood bar over and over. Rog grunts in pain but does not let go, and Freddie's eyes fill with empathetic tears. 

"Oh boo-hoo, go ahead and cry, faggot," the man growls. "I'll pound your little princess to the ground and then make short work of you."

Freddie's face hardens. His chin comes up and he unobtrusively shifts his feet into a boxing stance. "Don't you DARE touch my Roger!" He shouts and jabs his fist into the other's face with all the power of trained and righteous fury. 

The flats of Freddie's knuckles connect to the temple of the big man and he drops, senseless, thudding to the ground in a heap like a sack of produce. His friend, standing up once again but now with glass in his hair and blood trickling from a cut on his scalp, glowers and hauls his unconscious companion up with hands gripping his limp arms. And --wisely, Roger thought-- they vacate the premises. 

Roger has lain flat on the floor with a groan after letting go of the man, and his hand is taken and squeezed by Freddie. "...Are you all right, love?" Fred's eyes are huge and horrified, combing over Roger's entire body as the other slowly stands.

"Yeah, ooh. Yeah, I am." Roger winces, touching fingers to his lips, where he feels the warm wetness of blood. His lip is split, and he also feels like he'd been hit by a truck. His legs and back are certainly going to be bruised tomorrow. Freddie is looking him over in loving concern. His fingers lightly caress Roger's face, and Rog winces at that touch too. It smarts, and besides "Aah, Fred, maybe we ought to get outta here." There aren't many other people in this pub, but they are getting some more looks on account of the fight.

Freddie nods. "I must say this has quite ruined my appetite for further carousing." 

"Yeah," Roger huffs. "...We ought to've gone sight-seeing instead. Ya missed out, sweetheart," he drawls at the girl he had been sitting with. She is now peering at him from the back of the room with wide eyes. The blond drummer blows her a sardonic kiss as he links arms with his frontman, tossing back his hair. "Ready, Freddie?"

Though his deep brown gaze still holds concern within, Fred's full lips lift in an affectionate smile. "As I'll ever be, Roger dear." 

As they are exiting the bar, Roger limping along slowly since his body aches, he calls over to the bartender (who had been conspicuously absent during the course of the fight, just now coming out of a rear room) "Sorry about the mess, mate." The drummer tosses a couple of crumpled bills on to a table and he and Freddie depart the bar into the frigid late-night, or more likely early-morning, Indianapolis air.

***

Freddie and Roger walk along the side of the road, heading away from the bar. They are able to see for kilometres in the slowly lightening sky over the flat expanse of Indianapolis. Roger recalls the name of the hotel they were planning to stay in; well, the one John Reid gave the name of. Bri and Deacy had gone to get their actual room. 

Roger hopes he and Freddie can make it back to the place without getting lost or having any more unfortunate encounters. He glances sideways at his best friend, noting the lack of spring in Fred's step. It must be horrible to enter a place and not be surprised by--frankly, almost come to EXPECT--people to demean you for who you are; for an aspect of your self that should not matter in the slightest. "I'm--I'm sorry that you had to deal with that, Fred." Roger jerks his head back the way they had come and winces involuntarily as he twinges what is almost certainly a tweaked or bruised neck. That arsehole had almost put him out. Moving closer, the blond wraps an arm around his friend's broad shoulders, which feel tight under the cloth of Fred's coat, like he has not let his guard down yet.

At Roger's touch, though, Freddie sighs and tension slowly drains from his muscles. He shakes his head, dark hair making feathery shadows upon his cheeks. "It isn't your doing, Roger darling. Just a fact of life, but thank you all the same." He leans against the side of Roger's chest, catching the familiar faint scent of nicotine intermixed with leather and the warm, salty-sweet smell of Roger in all his exertions. "I'M sorry that you were forced to get involved," Freddie says now, shivering a bit. "That man was a _mountain_ \--he could have really hurt you!" Fred's lips tremble as he imagines the sight of Roger out cold on the floor, blood on his immobile face. 

Roger shrugs, bringing his friend back to the present as his lips curve into a grin that causes blood to bead at the split. "Eh, I went after the bastards first," he returns offhandedly. "But sometimes hate deserves to get punched in the face. 'Sides, YOU knocked that wanker out stone-cold!" He squeezes Freddie's shoulder in congratulation. "... I'll hafta tell Brian, callin' you Muhammad Ali isn't a joke anymore." He laughs and a stiff wind comes up and catches and tugs at his soft light hair as Freddie gazes at him with affection.

A passing car headlight, along with the rising sun, catches Roger's round face fully in its beams, revealing a dark blotchy bruise on his left cheekbone. He is moving carefully, as though his legs and midsection are paining him, but he does not complain. His blue eyes stare steadfast ahead, glancing over to Freddie every so often to check on him. Freddie feels a warm glow of love settle into his chest, throughout and around his heart. He cannot comprehend how he had been lucky enough to become Roger's friend; earning care, affection, and acceptance from this most loyal of men, but he is indescribably grateful for it. 

Reaching down, Freddie takes Roger's free hand in his for a moment and squeezes it. "I adore you, Roger Taylor."

Ducking his head and deliberately lacing his fingers through Freddie's, Roger holds on tight. "As I do you, Fred."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"Oh, you know my sign. Well _done_ , darling." = Freddie Mercury is a Virgo, and he drew two fairies on the Queen crest to represent his birth sign (early September) so he's making a sly joke here
> 
> Feel free to tell me what you think, darlings <3


	3. Something to See, Baby

It is full sunup when the telephone rings in the band's hotel room. Brian is awake and lunges across his bed to fumble for the heavy metal of the rotary phone atop the nightstand. It rings again, the shrill sound cutting through the silence of the room, and John moans from his pillow, rolling over and burying his head beneath its fluffy warmth. "Hullo?" Brian murmurs into the receiver as he presses it to his ear, catching the cord on some of his hair and hissing slightly in pain. 

"...Yes, is this the voice of the esteemed and devastatingly lovely Queen guitarist Brian May?" Purrs a mirthful sultry tone.

Brian shoots upright in bed. "Fred?" He closes his eyes and lets out a sharp heavy breath of relief. He felt concern coil inside his guts as soon as he awoke and saw neither Freddie nor Roger in the room with him and John. He'd figured at the very least ONE of them would have made it back by sunrise. So now he is incredibly thankful. "Thank God. Are you and Roger alright?"

Before Freddie says anything, in the background on his end Roger's high voice calls "We'll be a little better soon as we get to lay down in a bloody BED, Brian! What's the room number??"

Brian lets out a quiet chuckle. "We're in 107, Rog." 

"Cheers, darling," Freddie chirps. "We shall be right down." 

"See you in a minute, Fred." Brian hangs up the phone and swings his lengthy legs out of bed. He rises and gets to the door in time to hear a rapping on the wood and then Freddie's muffled voice.

"What a place this is, even the _paint_ job is abysmal!" 

Brian grins fondly as he opens the door, but the smile instantaneously drops from his face as he spots Roger. 

The purple bruise upon his cheek is far darker now, and the pain in the drummer's chest and legs renders his movements stiff and somewhat weak. Freddie is holding him up with one arm wrapped underneath his shoulders. Instantly Brian pushes the door wide and reaches out to catch a hold of his friend's free side. Roger looks up into Brian's face and offers him a slight smile.

"Oh, Rogie, what did you do?" The dark-haired man sighs as he helps Roger over the threshold and Freddie, having ducked out from beneath Roger's arm, closes the door behind them.

"Don't start in on me, Brian," grumbles the blond. "...I didn't get into a fight over someone's girlfriend, if that's what you're worrying about."

"--He was protecting my virtue, darling," Freddie quips softly, leaning out of the washroom (which he had entered after peering into the rest of the room and noticing John asleep) to search out cleaning supplies and possibly bandages. 

Brian's eyebrows disappear into his curly fringe as he helps Roger towards the chair. "Was he, now? _Our_ Roger?"

"Ha ha, don't act so surprised, Bri," Roger snaps. Agony and exhaustion are vying for dominance within his body and making him grouchy. "I wouldn't wantcha to hurt yourself. ...Fred joined in the fight and helped me make sure my arse wasn't kicked that bad."

Brian nods. "Ah. Now that I do believe." His hazel-brown eyes do not leave Roger's blue ones as he asks "Are YOU alright, Freddie?"

Fred flourishes one hand dismissively. "But of course, Brian. I'm a wee bit tired and my ego has been bruised, but give me an hour or two's decent rest and some breakfast biscuits and I'll be myself again." He pokes his head out of the washroom and beckons to the both of them. "Bring Roger here and I'll clean him up before we sleep. It's the least I can do for you, dear," he adds in a severe tone as Roger opens his mouth in order to protest being mollycoddled. "Now do shut up and let me tend to your hurts."

Brian maneuvers Rog into the loo to sit on the edge of the bathtub, remaining at his side so that the drummer can lean against him for support. They are lucky there is no gig tonight; they have today and tomorrow to get ready for and make it to Detroit. Brian pushes the loo door closed with one foot. "John is still asleep," he informs in response to Roger's inquiring glance. "He had quite a bit of drink last night. I was rather pissed myself, but managed to sleep it off. I have a feeling he was waiting up for you," the guitarist speaks in a significant manner. Freddie presses his lips together as Roger glances away in shame. They should have called sooner. Handing over a wash cloth that Freddie wets in water from the sink, Bri adds "... He'll be very happy to hear you both got back safe and in one piece."

"More or less," Roger jokes and Brian's brows rise upward as his head dips low and he flashes a discomfited smile.

"More or less. Right."

Registering his mood and the dark clouds of worry hanging over his head, Roger reaches out and squeezes Brian's hand reassuringly. "That was a _joke_. I'll be all right, Bri, honestly." His tired features split into an impish grin that breaks over his face like sunlight. "Doctor Freddie Mercury is the best in the business."

"You're bloody right he is," Fred says, taking Roger's chin and gently wiping dried blood from his face. "Now hold still, Roger. Let's fix that pretty face."

Pretty face. Roger's stomach lurches as he recalls another voice sneering at him _"My mistake, Princess."_ Sees those eyes coveting, finding him pretty, and then instantly growing disgusted. And the things they had said to Freddie--the way they looked at him-- Roger closes his eyes now, expression screwing up as his shoulders start to shake; and suddenly, violently, idiotically, he is sobbing. 

Freddie instantly takes away the wash cloth and pulls him against his shoulder. "Oh, Roger, darling--"

"No," Roger gasps. "'M sorry, Fred. Brian. Must be, just...the pain, or something. I'm fine."

"You aren't," Brian's soft voice is full of emotion as his fingers stroke the back of Roger's head and he speaks in that patented Brian way of voicing the truth. The drummer feels his tears falling faster, hot and stinging as they drip off his face to soak Fred's shirt. He tries to stop, clutching Fred round the back as if he can squeeze him tight enough to suck his own tears back inside somehow, but of course he cannot. That's stupid, Roger. What an idiot you are. Above his head, Roger hears Freddie murmuring to Brian, likely telling the whole humiliating tale.

Bri's fingers are now shaking as he continues stroking Roger's hair. "Oh, God, Freddie...Rog, I'm so sorry you both had to deal with that." His fingertips pinch strands of hair between them before he lets Roger go and adds, voice rising, "We ought to tell someone."

"Who?" Roger chokes, finally not crying anymore, but he feels utterly exhausted as he swipes an arm across his face to blot away his tears. "What are we going to say, Brian? That two men started hassling us so we had to beat the crap out of them? Yeah, that'll make us seem real sympathetic."

"But you shouldn't have been treated like that!" Brian exploded. His voice is as indignant as when he talks about the dwindling natural habitats of exotic animals. "It shouldn't matter what you --what anyone-- does in bed! You should be able to get a drink in peace!"

Roger lets out a snort. "Yeah, well, tell that to the fucker who rearranged my face."

To Roger's complete surprise, Freddie barks out a laugh at those words. His eyes are dancing as he pulls Brian down to look at him, shifting slightly backward to face Roger as well. "I love you both, and both of you are right--this sort of thing should not happen, Brian, but as you say, Roger, here and now we can't do anything about what's already happened. I say," he looks at them both soulfully, eyes growing serious even as his tone remains bright and warm, "that we just have to spread love through our music and hope it somehow reaches those as-of-now deaf ears." Brian swallows and looks down at the floor, and Roger feels as if he may start crying again. He blinks hard and swallows. Freddie smiles. "But right now I need to bandage my Roger and then we should all get some rest before we go on." He looks to Brian, putting a finger beneath his chin and lifting it. "Chin up, love. It'll be all right." 

Brian smiles, and Roger feels himself growing calm. Thank heavens for Freddie. He really is one of a kind, and his heart is big enough to fit the whole world inside. How did they get so lucky?

***

John Deacon wakes up to a headache pounding monstrous behind his eyes, and the sun is nearly blinding him somehow, even through their half-blocked window. He groans and rolls over, smashing his face against a bony hip that had definitely not been beside him before. The limb and body attached to it shake with a nearly-silent chuckle. "Morning, Deaks. How fares your head?"

John cracks one eye open to recognise Brian, curls a messy halo round his thin face as he sits, leaning his back against the headboard, with a cup of coffee. Its strong scent wafts over and simultaneously assails John's nostrils with the power to perk him up AND make his stomach nearly flip with nausea. "... Superb," he utters drily, expression deadpan. "I feel absolutely wonderful, thanks Brian. Did Freddie and Roger ever make it home?"

Brian inclines his head towards the other bed, the one he had stretched out in last night, and John turns, flopping his face over to spot the light hair of Roger Meddows Taylor, a tufty mess as it splays across the nearest pillow. One of Freddie's hairy arms is draped across Rog's chest and the singer's face is nestled against his abdomen. John sighs in relief to see them both safe, and then his stomach does flip as he notices a bruise on Roger's face. The knuckles of his right hand are wrapped in what appears to be a makeshift bandage. As John stares, he sees the fluttering of Rog's lashes and then those fathomless blue depths appear, opening wide, and John cannot look away. His entire body is tense and twanging in panic undisguised as Roger yawns, stretches, rumples his hair with a wince, and says "G' morning, John. Heard ya had a bit of a wild one last night."

John blinks at him with incredulity and after a beat murmurs "... Clearly I could say the same thing about you."

Roger lets out a guffaw that wakes Freddie, causing the other to stretch himself like a cat and beam "Good morning, darling. So glad to hear you laughing. Dearest Deacy," he turns to the youngest with that smile that looks like the sun, only so brilliant that he cannot avert his eyes, "I understand you waited up for us. Well we're here now, darling; so there was no need to worry."

"Erm, excuse me, what is THAT, then?" John sharply lifts his face from the pillow to nod at Roger's obvious injury and freezes, instantly regretting his movement as the room sways sickeningly around him. Ergh.

Roger glances at Freddie, who is quick to say, "That happened because Roger was defending me from some rather beastly men who took issue with what they deemed to be my, our, persuasions." 

Roger nods. "Freddie knocked a bloke out cold with a single punch!" He enthuses. 

Brian whistles. "Hang _on_ , Fred, you failed to mention that this morning!"

Freddie shrugs modestly. "It was nothing, darling. Just years of boxing training finally paying off. And it didn't stop poor Roger from getting hurt." He cups his palm to Roger's face oh-so-gently, and Roger leans into him. Something about their way together makes John's heart ache even as it simultaneously soars to have his friends back -mostly- sound.

They manage to locate breakfast--Brian brings tea and scones from somewhere--and Roger swears in a (mostly) good-natured manner at the TV and its wavy black-and-white picture, not to mention the quality of the sound. Freddie tsks at him to be still while he checks Roger's bandages and the bruises that now stretch across his back and ribs. His head is feeling better, he says, so at least that's good. John's head, however, is not. Hangovers are horrific. 

Their accountant calls them to say their manager paid for a bus; it will meet them at their hotel and be driving them to Detroit for their next gig. 

"Time for a Scrabble tournament, loves!" Freddie crows.

***

The four bandmates pack up their hotel room, putting empty bottles from the minibar beside the trash bin that cleaners will take out later. Roger gives the television one last solid whack in frustration before rising stiffly. John ushers him out the door with a smile, grey-green gaze squinted a little from his own head pain, but concerned for Roger's nonetheless.

Roger grins and pats the bassist's shoulder. "...Here," he turns and offers his sunglasses. "Put these on for a bit, close your eyes and lean on me. It's gonna be bright outside and you look like hammered shite, mate." John nods peaceably and does as Rog suggests, not bothering even to roll his eyes, as he knows Roger has dealt with his fair share of hangovers. Truthfully, he's grateful for the assistance.

Brian smiles and nods to the front-desk receptionist as Freddie waves and no doubt Roger winks when they pass her. After they step out the front door, a metal behemoth of a bus screeches to a halt by its side. The door at the front of the vehicle folds open to reveal a familiar craggy face.

"You lot are right lucky that I've got a bus license."

"Miami!" Freddie spreads his arms with a beatific grin that unabashedly showcases all of his teeth. "How wonderful to see you! This is a real treat." 

Roger laughs with delight as John clutches his arm and Brian taps his long fingers over his mouth, nimble mind working overtime. "Did Reid send you?"

Jim Beach, christened 'Miami' by Freddie almost as soon as he initially came into Queen's presence, is a lifesaver. The band's accountant, it was he who had stopped their relationship with their previous agent from turning into a complete shit show; only a partial one. Let's just say he had settled out of court. Now he says "I sent myself soon as I was told you had to rent a bus. As your accountant I think it's wise for me to keep a close eye on _all_ of your finances." Brian nods and Roger's laughter dies. John's brows come together and his eyes crinkle behind Roger's sunglasses as Fred purses his lips. All four know to whom and what Beach is alluding without him needing to voice it directly. 

"Well come on, then," Freddie breaks the short silence as their accountant-turned-driver engages the parking feature on the bush dash and unfastens his seatbelt, coming down the steps.

"We have a compartment for your instruments. I already have the amplifiers all packed in. And we'll get your pyrotechnics and smoke stuff sorted out... er, somehow." 

Miami comes round the side of the vehicle and opens the compartment he'd indicated. Roger smirks and squeezes John's arm before releasing it and heading to haul his drum kit into the space. Brian gently extricates John's bass from his fingers as the other exclaims "Roger--he shouldn't be lifting--"

"I'll get him," Brian demurs. "Go ahead and get in the bus, Deacy. You're looking a trifle pallid." John swallows and withdraws the borrowed glasses from his face, nodding to Brian in silent thanks as the guitarist takes them and softly pats him on the shoulder. 

John hustles into the bus and locates a seat as Brian brings his bass round the rear for Miami to place into the compartment. "We'll be needing to make a stop on the road for ice packs I think." 

Having just assisted Roger in putting his drumset in the bottom of the bus and seen the bruise standing out on his soft cheek first-hand, Miami nodded. "Aye, and I get the feeling hydration materials might he a good idea too." His eyes sparkle as he catches Brian's, and the tall guitarist huffs in agreement as his own eyes crinkle with humour.

Bri's voice is suffused with warm appreciation as he responds "Thank you very much, Miami." 

The other waves him off. "Well. It's my job to watch out for you boys, after all."

Bri ducks his head as he precedes Miami into the bus--Roger had already gotten in with Fred and they're in the back giggling over something beside John, who still looks like his head wants to rid itself of the rest of him. Poor lad. Miami starts the engine and Brian sits down just behind him for the moment. Really, thank goodness for Jim Beach. The man is no fool; and Brian is incredibly grateful to have him here with them for the remainder of this journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Let's just say he had settled out of court. = The band's relationship with their previous agent, Norman Sheffield of Trident records, was incredibly tempestuous after they realised he was basically stealing from them. Had a Rolls-Royce when Roger supposedly couldn't afford to purchase new drumsticks. Sheffield apparently sued the band for slander, or tried to, after Freddie wrote 'Death on Two Legs' about his doings. I would like to think this occurrence cemented the boys' close bond with Miami, who would later go on to become their manager himself.
> 
> I don't know whether or not Miami actually has a bus license, but he is a jack-of-all-trades and I really want him to look after the band; so voila! He's driving them ;P
> 
> Feel free to tell me what you think :)


	4. Well There's People and More People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bus ride and a heart-to-heart the night before a show. Then it's on to breakfast and rehearsal for the show itself!
> 
> WARNING for brief references to child abuse below

"...You can't simply put an 'N' down on the board, Freddie."

"Why not, darling?"

"--Because it's not a word!" Roger is exasperated. He then winces and presses a not-quite-cold ice pack to his cheek. "Ah!"

They have been driving north for what seems like hours now, but cannot tell how far they have actually gone because everything looks the same along the highway in the middle of Indiana--grass and flat fields and maybe a couple cows. They'd stopped off at a gas station for ice and water, cigarettes and sandwiches, but at this point patience is running low for certain members of the band. So they had started playing a game of Scrabble with the board that is ever-present in Fred's bag. 

And he is allowed to bend the rules, apparently.

"Don't you have an 'O' or something, Fred? Then you could make a two-letter word," Brian suggested.

"No, I don't. I've got to play my N. There," Freddie puts it down with a grin, eyes dancing gleefully as he glances from Roger to Brian. "Do either of you care to challenge?" He takes a pull on his cigarette and Roger does as well. Rog glances at Brian with a sigh as his blond locks settle on his shoulders. Brian puts his chin in his hand and shakes his head. His eyebrows go up and down in resignation.

Both men are fully aware that if they were to offer a challenge, Fred would only continue to argue his right to put a lone letter N on the board, and honestly it is not worth it. "That's fine," Brian speaks up gently and Freddie beams. "But I'm going to do this." The guitarist leans in, long curls swinging, and adds a K before and A, C, K, E, R, E, D after the N (with the 'D' already in place from Roger's vertical word DAMN that he'd been inordinately proud to place several turns ago). Freddie stares, uncomprehending, at the board. "That's a double-word score for me, Fred."

Roger throws up his hands in disgust, his cigarette bouncing at the corner of his mouth. "Blimey, Fred, well fucking done! I have only this to say to you, Brian," the drummer aggressively puts an R, S, and E beneath Brian's A. "You're an arse." Deacy snickers from his place in the corner, head unencumbered by hangover pain now and eyes sparking with mirth. "Think this is funny, do you, John?!" Roger demands, gesticulating wildly at Brian. "Neither of us can beat him!"

"Well, Bri DOES have a nearly-complete degree in astrophysics," is the answer. "I couldn't stand up against his big brain either."

"We might could have a CHANCE, at least," Roger explodes, "If Freddie wasn't stuck on putting down individual bloody letters every time! _That isn't how you play the game!_ "

There is a spell of silence, broken only by Roger's heaving breaths of ire, and Freddie pouts, tapping a tile on the table with his facial expression pinched and unhappy. The ride is wearing on them all. "Would you rather I not play at all, love? I'll give up my tiles and you two can finish. Here." He makes as if to actually slide them over, and Roger blinks. He hadn't expected Freddie to fold. He's competitive, and yells about it, but he doesn't want to be a poor sport. Brian whacks Roger on the arm and nods significantly from him to Freddie.

"Wait," Roger sighs. "I'm sorry, Fred. I know how you play. Let's just--finish this game, c'mon." He scrubs a hand across his face, lights popping like fireworks behind his eyelids as he closes them briefly and then shakes his head. "I'm already tired of this bus."

"--As this is one of the shorter legs of the tour," Miami calls back over his shoulder, "You're going to have to get used to it sometime very soon, Roger."

Plopping his face into his hands with a groan, half-smoked cigarette hanging between two fingers, Roger groans loudly. "Bloody _hell_."

Brian pats Roger on the back in sympathy, and Rog leans against him for a bit of comfort as the guitarist utters "Your turn, Fred."

Freddie gravely chooses a tile out of the bag to replace the one he'd used and murmurs, "Here you are, Roger. This is what I feel like right now." He adds H, O, L, and E onto ARSE. 

Absolutely shocked, Roger drops his hands. "What! Fred, no you're not--if anything, _I_ was the one being an arsehole, not you. This is how you always play Scrabble; it's unique."

"And maddening," Freddie shoots back. "I know that."

"I'm just competitive," Roger admits, ignoring a snort from Brian. He waits for the guitarist to make another word--he puts down LUMMOX, that bastard--and adds W and E next to Freddie's O. "I owe you."

Freddie's lips curve in a grin and to head off what is certain to become either a contest of self-deprecating insults or gushing compliments, John groans "You guys are going to owe me a headache remedy because I'm fixing to get another one. Just shut up and finish your game already!"

"Ohh, Deacy, are you feeling neglected, dear?" Freddie coos and gets up, crawling on his hands and knees across the table with their game board on it to catch hold of John's face and plant a kiss on his forehead.

"Whoa, whoa, waTCH THE TILES, FRED!!" Brian shouts and Roger dives to keep them from flying everywhere, but Freddie's foot catches one corner of the board and it flips off of the table. "Ah, damn it!"

Freddie looks up from where he has fallen into John's arms and lap where the bassist rests supine upon the seat, brown eyes wide and innocent. "Dearie me, did I do that?"

Roger coughs and chokes on cigarette smoke and laughter as he bends and begins to scoop up tiles. Brian looks over at Fred and his exasperated features soften into a smile as the front man mouths _Sorry, darling._ John gently nudges Fred off of him and kneels to help Roger pick up the pieces as Brian roughs up his curls before picking up the Scrabble box itself.

Freddie hands him the now-empty board and Roger, still crouched on the floor, stares balefully up at Brian: "Just so you know, Brian May, I'll be demanding a rematch. Knackered. Come ON!!" His voice breaks a bit with indignation, and everyone else bursts out laughing. The drummer joins in after a beat and Miami drives on.

***

Brian takes his guitar out of her case. 

He had brought his Red Special into the bus with him rather than being content to leave her in the designated instruments compartment. Bri tunes her and begins to play, quiet, and the low strumming begets a calm atmosphere in the vehicle. Scrabble has been put away by now, and John is once again lying across a seat, Freddie's long body half on top, half beside his. Those green-grey eyes of John's are watching Brian, studying him closely til their owner begins to drowse, head nodding in time to the movement of the bus. 

Roger has nestled his warm body against the fronts of Brian's knees. The drummer's high yet throaty voice, unique in its gravelly nature, hums along to the tune Brian is playing. It starts off as '39' and then the notes grow heavier and darker, seemingly of their own accord. When the guitar starts wailing out a dirge, Brian stops, heartbeat crinkling in his eardrums. 

Roger has ceased humming along now, and Brian rather hopes that he has dropped off to sleep the way Deacy and Freddie have done--curled into one another like cats, limbs layered and draped upon and around each other's bodies. Brian feels bitterly cold all of a sudden and wishes he could join them, but his sorrow prevents him. The dirge of loneliness within his heart is crying out through the strings of his guitar. His breaths come in sharp gasps and he notices that Roger's warmth has departed; because Rog has turned his body around to kneel facing Brian. His large eyes are glued to Brian's face. Oh, Christ. Brian trails off the final chord he had been plucking and stops.

It is silent save for the engine of the bus rumbling and Roger breathing quietly. Brian cannot even make out his own breaths anymore, and that scares, no--it downright _terrifies_ him. He sees and feels his fingers shaking and carefully moves his guitar off his leg and back into the case numbly, moving in stiff spurts and jerks, mechanical, like an automaton. Brian closes his eyes and presses his trembling fingers against each other, clenching both hands together. 

And then he feels warmth enveloping his hands before rising to wrap around his torso. He feels a soft weight against his head and shoulder, and opens his eyes to see Roger holding him tight, leaning his head on Brian the way he had felt it a moment ago. Warmth is bubbling up and filling him. It is as if Rog can tell he had felt cold, so cold and alone. His heartbeat slows and his breaths elongate and begin to even out as his friend sits by and says nothing, simply holding onto Brian and giving him space to breathe.

Rolling into Detroit at about six that evening, the boys have the night and a day to get ready for their next performance. They go to a hotel--Miami had checked ahead for places with long-term bus accessable parking--and get two rooms, one that is a double suite with a door in between for the band, and the second is a single down the hall for Miami. "So I can keep an eye out," he said. An eye out for what is a mystery to everyone except him.

"You simply _must_ join us in our room for drinks, Miami darling!" Fred enthuses. "Live a little, this is a world tour!" 

John, despite his earlier hangover, is game for drinks with Freddie. "After I have a chat with Veronica," he says. He acts as though he thinks Freddie might be offended, but

"Oh go on with your domestic tete-a-tete, darling! Do give Ronnie my best!"

This leaves just Brian and Roger under Freddie's scrutinising gaze. Brian does not appear inclined to respond at the moment, so Roger offers "I'll be in after a minute, Fred. First--" he's got to get something out of Brian. That dark track he had played on the bus set off some alarm bells in Roger's head, and though he had not said anything then, he sure as hell is going to ask about it now. But he also does not want to blab out all of Bri's business; perhaps the episode on their way here was nothing serious. Yeah, right. Roger doesn't believe _that_ for a moment. But he also does not want to risk worrying Fred until he has legitimate information. So, "I need a shower," he tells Freddie, which is true. "I feel foul, I smell rank, and I know none of you lot will sleep in the same room as me unless I've showered, so." 

"...All right," Freddie makes a show of being generous. "I will allow it. This time." Rolling his lips and sashaying over beside Brian with a flourish, he asks "What about you, Bri? Brian, dear?"

Roger, who had flopped onto the nearest bed in order to take his shoes off, looks up and up at Brian, whose eyes appear a billion kilometres away, out in Space somewhere. He cups a hand round his mouth and calls cheekily: "Hellooo out there, Earth calling Brian! This is Earth to Brian May, d'you read?" When he does not answer, Roger stands in now bare feet and snaps his fingers before his gangly friend's face. " _Brian!_ "

Brian blinks and jerks. "Wha-- ah, yes, sorry." He looks down at Roger at last. Rog studies him closely, and is wearing glasses this time, so he can clearly see the weary sorrow etched on Brian's face. 

"You alright, Bri?" He asks softly. "Fred's wondering if we want to have drinks." 

Brian bounces on the balls of his feet and rubs his hair. "I think--thank you for the suggestion, Fred, but I'm a bit tuckered out. I may have a... phone call to make, and then I plan to sleep." His eyes are wide and regretful as he catches Freddie's. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to ruin your fun or anything; I--"

"Brian." Freddie takes the tall man by both hands and presses them. "Don't worry your dear gentle heart, I understand. Make yourself some tea and get a good night's rest, love. I'm certain there will be endless future opportunities for drinks." Lifting one hand to the guitarist's lean cheek, he strokes it. "Take care of yourself first, that's most important." 

Brian chokes a bit at Freddie's words, and on the kindness; trying to smooth his features into a smile. As always, his reaction belies his belief that he does not deserve others' esteem or care. It's infuriating to Roger, and based on the way Fred now huffs air out of his nose, to him as well. "Thanks, Fred." Bri practically whispers.

Freddie lets him go with a pat and an "Of course, dear. Come on, Deacy. Let us leave the showerers and sleepers in peace." John nods, studying the two of them--and if Roger was a betting man, he would put money on the fact that John certainly knows--or at least suspects something is going on with Brian. Roger silently vows to find out what it is.

He waves to and closes the door behind Fred and John, turning with glacial deliberation back to face Brian, who now refuses to look at him. Instead he has chosen to begin hanging up show costumes in order to occupy himself.

"Brian." Roger clears his throat and folds his arms across his chest, tone and expression intent.

Brian sighs a bit, ducking his head. "Yes, Rog?" He fiddles with the flowing sleeve of a billowy black tunic.

Roger stalks across the room and takes the flowing garment from him in order to smooth it out, and to force Brian to look him in the face. Which he does at last. The drummer bites his lip. "That little session on the bus, mate--I know you well enough that I can tell when something's going on with you, so c'mon. Out with it. I'm all ears."

Brian stills and sighs, hair falling in his face like the curtains he steadfastly wishes he could draw closed over his problems; cut himself off from all the thoughts and feelings and concerns he cannot shake, the ones that become magnified at strange moments in between. While rehearsing, readying himself for performances, and when on stage of course--he is fine, he is solid, he is rock 'n roll guitar god Brian May, and he loves it. But in the quiet spaces with his band family, Brian wishes his other loved ones could see this. Particularly his dad. Especially his dad.

They have not spoken in almost seven years because Brian chose to join a band. They have not spoken because Bri threw the chance for a stable, respectable career away, completely out of the window, by dropping out of Uni before completing his doctorate. They have not spoken because Brian is too stubborn and his father too rigid, and every time Bri calls his mum his heart rips open wider because she sounds so lost and broken down. He knows he ought to call her tonight, to call Chrissie, tell them both how he is; but when he thinks the words "I'm fine", his stomach ties itself into sickly knots. Yet he cannot bear to tell them he is not fine, or worse, have them automatically believe and take him at his word that everything's okay.

So thank goodness for stubborn, impossible Roger and his candid honest search for the truth. Brian's truth. Brian knows that Rog will listen to what he has to tell. And he really needs to say it, at the very least to say SOMEthing, or in his sadness he will start to drown.

So here goes. "I miss my parents, Roger." The words sound plaintive when he speaks them aloud, stupid and whiny. Rog does not laugh or poke fun, however; he simply nods at Brian and silently invites him to continue. Bri loves him for that, for giving him time to collect his thoughts as well as he can. "I know they love me," he continues. "But they've got to, I'm their son. I want them to understand what I'm doing, why I chose to do this. I know my mum supports me in her own way, but just--" every time she picks up the phone to talk with him there is sadness in her voice; worry, anxiety and pain. He cannot bear to cause her pain.

But every time his father refuses to talk to him or when Brian cannot stop himself from blurting out something snide, the agony had continued-- and it continues still. "--I want them both to come see us play," he says suddenly. "Perhaps if my father witnesses a Queen concert he will understand." _And maybe if humans were given wings they could fly, but it doesn't mean they should._ A snide little voice hisses inside Brian's head. He despises that voice but it seems as if he's always had it, telling him to pack away his dreams because they're crazy and no one will understand. No one is interested in interplanetary dust, Brian. Just like no one will understand why you chose a stable career and then ditched it before you even began, for _music_. To play in a band. _Get your head out of the stars, boy; come back down to Earth._ Brian shakes his head now, folding in on himself, looking defeated. Roger cannot stomach seeing that.

"No," the drummer snaps, getting right in Brian's face and shaking a finger at him in reproof. "Don't you dare negate yourself, don't even THINK that's impossible or stupid, because it's not. You're Brian May, king of the impossible!"

Brian's lips quirk up in a tiny smile. "That's Flash Gordon, Roger."

Roger rolls his eyes. Brian just cannot stop being a nerd, even for five fucking seconds. "Fine. Y'know what, you're a prince of the universe, then. Nothing's impossible, and if I have to hunt down your father and drag him to a concert myself in order to prove that you're doing what you're meant to, then I will. You've got a right to be understood and accepted by the people you love. Everyone does." The drummer stands with legs spread wide apart, practically burning with indignation, demanding that Brian believe in himself and believe that he deserves to be accepted and understood. Not to mention appreciated for pure bloody skill.

Never mind that getting his parents here IS impossible. They won't come, but at least Roger believes in him and wants to help. That is enough. More than enough. "Thank you, Rog," Brian says.

Roger's eyes are still flashing. "Oh, shut it, Bri. You're welcome. Of course I would do that for you--you're family. I'll do anything for you, you bloody idiot," he growls. "And for the record, your parents choose to love you. Trust me. There's nothing they have 'got' to do, and even though your father is being a right arse at the moment, he cares." Roger waves a hand. "That doesn't excuse anything he's done, mind; the man ought to at least TALK to you, but your relationship could be a lot worse." His gaze has darkened and he clenches one fist.

Brian's breath catches and his muscles seize up in horror. Of course Roger would know, because of the hell he was put through as a child at the hands of his own father. What an insensitive prat Brian is, moaning over his piss-poor little problems when his father never hurt a hair on his head. Roger's-- "Oh my God, Rogie, forget what I said. You've had things far rougher, I'm sorry--"

"Damn it, Brian!" Roger spits, seizing the taller man's shoulders as he leaps onto the bed in order to loom over him. "Shut the fuck up and _listen_ \--I'm not trying to diminish your problems, because you're obviously going through hell. I'm just saying there is a light at the end of this tunnel because no matter what happens with your father, you are loved!! You ridiculous, brainy, stubborn bastard." He shakes Brian by the shoulders to punctuate the words, and then his voice softens. "Your parents love you, Chrissie loves you, and so do I." Feeling a trifle helpless in the face of his friend's aggressive lack of self-confidence, Roger adds "Deacy and Freddie love you too. Okay?" _And we love you because you deserve to be loved._ "Can you try to get that through your thick head? Please?!?"

Brian trembles like a leaf in the wind of his gale-force emotions, eyes filling with tears. Eventually, he croaks, "... Alright, Rog. I'll certainly -- do my best." Bri lets out a sharp breathless sound as Roger fiercely crushes him to his warm chest in the tightest embrace he can muster. For Brian to at the very least make an attempt to believe that he is deserving of affection and happiness and care is all the drummer can ask for.

***

The next morning has John knocking on the connecting door of the band suite and poking his head through it to spot Brian wrapped in the arms of Roger, whose right buttock is hanging off of the bed as Bri lies spread-eagled across it like some sort of strange lanky sea star.

Roger hadn't ended up going for drinks with John, Miami, Fred, and whomever else they could pick up in downtown Detroit after nine o'clock at night. After his shower he'd crawled into bed with Brian and they both fell straight to sleep.

Everyone in the second room has vacated its premises by the time they wake to Freddie crowing "We have rehearsal at the, er, Cobo Arena this afternoon, darlings!" He pokes his head around John's to call into the room, clapping his hands. 

Roger jerks awake, lets go of Brian, and falls to the floor with a solid _WHUMP_ , swearing. "For fucks' sake, Fred! You don't have to bloody _shout!_ "

Freddie's eyes dance mirthfully. "Terribly sorry, love."

Brian blinks rapidly and stretches, drawing in an extensive hissing breath through his nose. He opens his eyes and turns his head, dark curls cascading over the pale pillowcase as he creaks out "...Roger?"

"Down here," the drummer grunts, his own hair sticking up in all directions where he lies on the floor between the beds til Bri leans over and offers him a hand up.

"Morning John, Fred," the guitarist says.

"Hi Brian," John replies.

"How are you feeling today, dearest Brian? Well rested, I hope?" Freddie prods.

Brian briefly locks gazes with Roger. "Better. Rogie did his best to shake some sense into me last night."

"Mm. Did it work?"

"Not one bit," Brian deadpans, sitting up and nudging Roger in the ribs.

"Oh, really? Well then screw this, I'm going back to bed." Roger flounces dramatically in a movement worthy of Freddie and then flops face-first across the mattress.

John laughs and Freddie beams at him, at them all, with an almost desperate fondness. Oh, how he adores these boys.

After they dress, Miami drops the band off at a diner for breakfast before taking the bus to the arena and unloading instruments and amplifiers for the crew to haul backstage. The members of said crew have already been scurrying around for hours, familiarising themselves with the lights and sound system. And readying the dry ice and flash-bangs for what are quickly becoming known as signature pyrotechnics of Queen in concert.

Roger has never masticated more bland, tasteless food in his life than he does at this eating establishment with its formica-topped tables and pale-faced wait staff (who appear prepared to duck and run out the door at any second, but for some unfathomable reason remain, apparently resigned to their fates. Rog cannot even bring himself to mack on anyone because he feels awful for them all). 

Brian tucks into his food with gratitude and that is the only aspect of this meal Roger feels positive about. Freddie persists pestering their server (in a good-natured manner, his ever-present charm in full force) to "Heat up some herbal tea or something, won't you, darling? You ought to drink some yourself, bring a mite more colour to those lovely cheeks".

John asks for a rasher of bacon, and then awkwardly attempts to explain no, that doesn't mean he intends or wants to purchase ALL the bacon in the place; he just wants-- "Er, 'rasher' means--" With a good-natured smile and a shrug he gives up and eats the pair of cooling eggs on his plate without complaint.

Roger is muttering enough for all of them, and Brian begins to fidget as he is raring to reach the arena for their pre-performance rehearsal and sound check. Freddie dazzles their waitress with an elaborate bow and smile, signing a napkin for an awestruck busboy as the four men pay for their meals and take their leaves.

The arena is already buzzing with feedback as they enter, and it echoes from the work of the crew. Crew members bring up various spotlights to test them out, hauling cartons of firecrackers and flash-bangs and dry ice backstage to prepare for the pyrotechnics.

All four of the lads trade glances with one another. It's going to be one hell of a show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"You can't simply put an 'N' down on the board, Freddie." = Apparently this is similar to the way that Freddie actually played Scrabble, according to Brian and Roger. (Though in real life, as I was informed in a comment, thanks for the clarification ScholarlyBAMF, Fred put down 'EN' which is in fact a printing term.) Bless him and his few-tile play! Here is the link to a YouTube video talking about it: https://youtu.be/zVgZjZy3VWk
> 
> I know that Brian has dealt with depression and that sadness can blindside a person even when they don't feel it consciously before the moment it manifests. But Rog knows Brian so well, and sometimes a person just needs physical proximity from a friend, without words, in order to be comforted. ...And then other times one needs to ask exactly what is going on in order to be able to help.
> 
> *Brian wishes his other loved ones could see this. Particularly his dad. Especially his dad. They have not spoken in almost seven years = I've learned that Brian's father, disappointed in his choice to quit school and be part of a rock band, did not speak to him for years because of it. Poor Bri :(
> 
> *Of course Roger would know, because of the hell he was put through as a child at the hands of his own father. = Roger... I've heard that he suffered from domestic abuse but never elaborated on the sort. Dear, strong man. I don't even have the words for how awful I feel on his behalf, and I imagine if he ever mentioned it at all to Brian or the other boys, he would shrug it off because that's how he is. Golden bright boy, dealing with life as best he can and taking care of his band brothers
> 
> *Roger has never masticated more bland, tasteless food in his life than he does at this eating establishment with its formica-topped tables and pale-faced wait staff (who appear prepared to duck and run out the door at any second, but for some unfathomable reason remain, apparently resigned to their fates. ) = My sincerest apologies to anyone who works at such establishments. Yes they definitely exist --looking at you, Denny's-- but I personally respect everyone who works in the food industry because I know I couldn't do it. Also it's most certainly not the workers' fault they have so little to work _with_ at such a place...
> 
> Suggestions and comments are always welcome and appreciated :)


	5. Those Old Crazy Dreams Just Kinda Came and Went

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A killer show in Detroit
> 
> Warning for some slurs shouted during the show. This is based on an incident mentioned to me as actually occurring during a Queen performance in the 70s. Also warning because Fred gets a little colourful/obscene in his phrasing in response to the slurs.

And they might go through hell before the show even gets started, because the seating setup--under a flat light-coloured ceiling with, is that a bloody _skylight_ in the centre? Wow--along with the stout wooden bracers round the edges that only break for exits...all of this screams poor acoustics. 

Large lightbulbs in regular intervals do little to illuminate the path towards the stage down centre, which looks a wee bit like a Grecian ampitheatre or the early Elizabethan stages with ample space for groundlings. But this one keeps the so-called expensive seaters at a distance. A cramped, uncomfortable looking, dark wood cinema-chair distance.

"--Are the majority of the poor buggers going to be forced to squash themselves in those seats?" Brian murmurs to Roger, who shrugs.

"Pack it in up the arse, darling, that's what I always say!" Freddie crows.

"Sounds like a typical Saturday night for you, Freddie."

" _Roger!_ " Brian is appalled at those words and John gasps in shock. Freddie, however, lets out a shout of laughter that is loud enough to make a crew member almost fall from their perch hanging wires by the wall.

"Oh well DONE, Rog! What a sardonic little bitch you are," Freddie hugs Roger to him and the other smirks. "...So sorry for assailing our dear Deacy's delicate innocent ears, however." Fred reaches across and ruffles John's long hair affectionately with his other hand. John's head lowers as his cheeks tint in a blush.

"You're not simply assailing him," Brian hisses, gesturing round at members of the crew who are working nearby. "Some of these lads look to be about sixteen years old!"

"... You're right, but that ain't nothing I haven't heard in high school, brother," the voice of one such young crew member approaches them now. Its owner has a swoop of dark hair and a face that seems primed for laughing. He offers his hand to shake those of each of the four men in turn, starting with Brian. "I'm Lionel. Lionel Emery Entwistle the third. You can call me Trey if ya want, or Lionel. It don't matter. Y'all are gonna have a sound and mic check in a minute. You can follow me and I'll take ya down to the pit. We call it the pit," he nods to the stage. 

Falling into step with him, Brian glances at his bandmates and then eventually inquires "Lionel, I hope you don't mind the question, but you aren't from around here, are you?" All voices the lads have heard so far are quite different from his; they sound faster, for one. His voice is a slow warm drawl.

The kid's lips quirk up. "No sir, I've spent most'a my life in South Carolina. My family moved up here almost a year ago, but I ain't lost my accent yet. Folks tell me I sound stupid, but ah well."

Brian's eyes widen in dismay. "That's horrible."

Lionel shrugs in a good-natured manner. "Whatta ya gonna do? Meanwhile you all with your British accents sound so sophisticated, maybe I can learn some phrases or somethin'." He jokes. 

John smiles and Freddie's eyes twinkle as Roger says "Or you tell those arseholes to fuck right off, that's what you do! Raging twats the lot of them, cracking on your accent."

"See, we aren't nearly so sophisticated as we seem at first glance, darling," Freddie coos. "Just as you are certainly not stupid. Now, what is your job here besides excellence in guiding acts such as ourselves to the stage?"

"Well, I work the lights," the young man says. "See that there crane?" He points to a metal behemoth that holds a cylindrical object in its claw. "I'm up workin' spotlights and changing colours'a bulbs during shows. Also do a bit with boom mics because the acoustics in here, well..." lowering his voice and ducking his head a bit closer as the band follows suit and leans in, "Nothing against Detroit, but if you were to come play in the Gamecocks' stadium, now THOSE are acoustics." He straightens up and grins. They have reached the stage. "Don't y'all worry though. You're in good hands. We're gonna make this work."

The lads make it onstage to the microphones for their sound check and Brian goes right into a rendition of 'Tie Your Mother Down' that has Freddie calling "Woah now, darling, what is THAT?"

"What d'you mean? I'm playing exactly what's on the record, Fred." Brian's fingers halt as the singer's shoulders roll in a dramatic shudder.

"Well nyeh nyeh nyeh, bloody grand. I can't get my voice in there at all."

"What do you want me to do?" Brian demands. 

"... Maybe if you tried slowing down?" John suggests timidly, leaning round Freddie to look at Brian. He receives an incredulous look and a snarl in reply.

"Oh, _fuck_ slowing down!" John blinks and nods in acceptance of that sentiment from Brian. Roger begins a drumroll. "Don't give us that, Roger--you were bloody behind!" The guitarist snaps.

"You expect us all to be perfect," Freddie chimes.

Brian lets out a disbelieving snort. Really, he expects perfection? He ALONE?! "Don't be fucking ridiculous." Nerves are fraying.

"... Maybe we could take it down?" John gently offers. 

"Nooo," Roger whines. "Don't take it down, I want to hear it!" 

Letting out an exasperated, aggrieved groan and roughing up his curls, "Alright, let's run it again," the guitarist sighs. Freddie flounces away. "I'm-- please, Fred," he begs, voice still irritated but eyes flashing piteously. Roger's large eyes follow Fred across the stage as well.

"How's this?" A crew member turns up the sound on Brian's amplifier and there is an echoey sound of footfalls across the metal catwalk above the stage.

"'Ware heads below!" Calls Lionel's warm voice as he lowers a boom mic a bit in front of Freddie. "There, that'll help y'all with getting heard," he adds. "And just tell me if you're still not gettin' all the sound back there, Roger. I can plug in a speaker beside ya from the boom and amps. I toldja we got this." His footsteps retreat to the ladder rungs along the wall and he calls to the crewman who had just turned up the amplifiers, "C'mon, Jimmy-- help me haul these lights up top, wouldja?" Jimmy nods and goes to the large spotlights, hooking them onto the fly system to haul up one by one.

Roger preens. "Well at least someone here appreciates the drummer," he says.

"Oh, we all do, pretty boy," Freddie returns.

Brian's irritation has left in a rush. "That boy just saved my arse," he mumbles.

John grins crookedly across at him. "Sure he didn't just save mine from getting a beat down from both you and Roger?"

Brian is surprised into laughing. Good ol' John and his excellently-timed cracks. The guitarist's giggle dies almost instantly. "I'm sorry, Deacy. I shouldn't have shut down your suggestions like that. You were trying to help."

"You're forgiven, Brian," John replies with a dip of his head. He glances over at Freddie, who is currently swinging the newly-placed boom mic back and forth while Roger laughs hysterically. "...I was going to suggest maybe apologising to Fred, but I think he's alright."

Brian shakes his head with fondness. "Children. They are children. John, I want to thank you for being the mature, reasonable one."

John chuckles. "In this situation, at least."

In this situation. Right. Unlike Brian himself, who was behaving in the most childish manner of all. His parents would be ashamed, well. Even more so. "Yes, that."

Noticing the look on Brian's face, a seemingly pained expression, John reaches out and pats him on the arm. "You're welcome, Brian." He is happy to help as best he can, and he hopes the guitarist knows that.

Brian clears his throat and settles his shoulders. "Hey, Freddie? Can we run this again?" He glances over at Roger, who is wiping his eyes and flicking his tongue at Fred as he settles himself onto the seat behind his drum kit.

Freddie catches the boom mic on its back swing and glances over at Brian. His features soften. "Of course we can, Bri my darling."

"Show must go on and all that," Roger adds. "Plus I've got to get some makeup on after we finish this. Hope Miami gets here in time." They had asked for their costumes and some makeup to be delivered before the show commences.

"Yes, your poor face," Freddie fusses. Roger shrugs. The bruise on his cheek isn't quite so pronounced anymore, thankfully.

"Let's hope one day it becomes a rich face. Preferably sooner rather than later."

John breaks into laughter and here comes Miami at that moment, carrying a large pile of clothes and holding onto a bag as he is led down to the stage. "I've got the outfits you earmarked for tonight, boys," the accountant--long-suffering errand boy, more like; at least at this moment--tells them. "Makeup was a bit more difficult, but I told the teller at the supermarket that I have four sprightly daughters who love conducting makeup experiments while on holiday."

The four bandmates glance at one another, Roger breaking into laughter with John. "Well you weren't exactly lying."

Miami chuckles. "That's what I thought," he jokes.

"This means I get to call you Papa Beach!" Freddie exults, spreading his hands.

"Oh, joy," Miami responds, a twinkle in his eyes contradicting the exasperated tone of his voice. He offers his cheek for a kiss from Freddie before backing away from the stage and sitting by for the remainder of the sound check. Lionel's assistance does a lot to improve the sound, and Freddie works his voice around the strains of Brian's guitar and over Roger's drums as John's steady backbeat keeps them all in time.

***

"Alright, we've got to eat something else before we get dressed for the show. Don't want Bri's lanky arse to pass out on us or Deacy drinking on an empty stomach, am I right?" Roger says. John glances at him sideways and Freddie studies Brian close as Deacy purses his lips and looks down at his feet with a nod. Brian makes a movement as if to chastise the drummer on John's behalf, but John shifts his shoulders ever-so-slightly and gently grips Brian's arm. Brian says nothing, dark curls obscuring his face as he dips his chin in a nonverbal expression of acquiesce.

Freddie takes all of this in carefully, as one studies a complex piece of art. His bandmates are akin to a work of pointillism--stand too close and you can see nothing but a series of disconnected dots. But move backwards even a wee bit and you can see the full picture; the complete image comes into focus here as: John had confided in Brian, told him something about his drinking habits during shows, and Brian has made it his mission to be protective if John requires it, only he hadn't just then.

It warms Freddie's heart to see John branching out and making connections. Dear Deaks and Bri are dissimilar in some ways that seem insurmountable, simply because of the barriers they both put up around their personalities. Brian is emotional, needs one-on-one reinforcement, while John retires to the background and feels his emotions alone and inside. Both of them, however, feel very deeply.

But clearly their barriers are not an issue at this moment and Freddie is glad of that. It also grants him a bit of time to study Brian and indulge his personal concerns about him. Yestereve Roger had seemed genuinely worried about Bri's state of mind, and it is not possible that worry could be completely assauged less than twenty hours later. Not when it has to do with someone like Brian, whose feelings are so acute. Freddie makes a mental note to keep an eye out in case his dearest Brian needs him tonight.

Another member of the crew comes up and asks if the four of them would like tacos. "Before shows we always order in some takeout food, and tonight is taco night."

"That would be--"

"--Great! Least if you have vegetarian options," Roger blurts, jerking his thumb over at Brian, who sighs heavily.

"Roger, it's fine, honestly..."

"Shut up, Bri, you need to eat too."

"I'm sure we can get nachos without meat, just lettuce and tomatoes and cheese--yeah, we'll find something for you," the crew member reassures with a genuine smile. Brian is nonplussed, as always, that someone would be so kind to him for no reason other than because ordering food before such a concert is done by tradition and necessity. 

Roger asks for a couple of tacos and burritos for himself and the others as well as that meatless nacho salad for Brian, and John hands over money to pay for their meals as the four head backstage to their designated dressing room.

Freddie pulls on his first sparkling jumpsuit from the pile of costumes and then begins applying foundation onto Roger's cheeks for him, taking the makeup bag from Miami and smoothing the colour carefully over his dear drummer's blotchy bruise with one pinky finger as Rog stills. John fumbles a little with the mascara they are to utilise and Brian quietly offers to help him with it. 

Miami, after setting the rest of their clothes down on a chair, goes back out to check on the sound equipment. "...Ask Lionel about it," Brian calls. "He and er-- Jimmy, I think is the name of the other lad-- they were the ones working on sound for our mic check." Jim Beach nods and pats the guitarist on the shoulder. Brian's eyes crinkle in a slight smile as he inclines his head in return before looking back to John, who stands before him. Putting one hand beneath his chin gently, Brian advises "Look up at the ceiling for me, Deacy," and John instantly obliges him, eyelashes fluttering as Bri carefully coats them in mascara. The dark colour starts to smudge a wee bit on John's face as he blinks, but Brian dabs at his skin and lashes with a bit of cloth to get the makeup dry.

"Ow, fuck off, Fred!" Roger whines, the others noticing him shoving at Freddie's exposed chest with lips pursed in a pout as the singer gamely attempts to finish applying colour to his round cheek. "That bloody _hurts!_ "

"Well I have to cover this bruise, which I could accomplish far quicker if you would just _hold still_ , dear," Freddie clucks. He grabs Roger's face and swipes a last bit of makeup onto it. "There--you're done! That wasn't so terrible...,"

"Yeah, maybe not for YOU."

Brian smiles at John as the bassist mouths _thank you_ to him and silently rises after the guitarist is done with the application of his makeup. John pulls on his tight trousers and Brian pulls his flowy white tunic over his own head, relishing the secure tightness of the cloth around his torso even as he shakes out the loose billowing sleeves with delight. 

Without needing to be asked, John ties up the strings on the back of Bri's tunic for him and then abruptly wraps his arms round the guitarist's waist for a moment, hugging his back. Brian leans into the touch, feeling a lump fill and close his throat. Deaks truly is intuitive, and Brian appreciates that facet of his personality both on-stage and off. Though, if he is desperately trying to convince himself that he is doing fine, John's intense searching gaze and understanding nature puts him off. Right now, though, in this particular moment it is a comfort.

A knock sounds on the door and Roger lunges for the tacos and burrito instantly as the crew member from before pokes their head inside and holds out the food. Rog's stage shirt is halfway over his head as he unwraps and chomps down on his burrito.

Freddie's features flicker in disgust that rivals his fondness. "DO watch your makeup, Roger dear."

"Yeah, yeah," the drummer replies, his cheeks puffed out like a frog's and his mouth full. "'Ere's yours, an' f'cha John, Brian." He holds out the nacho salad to his lanky friend. 

Bri carefully accepts the offered sustenance with a grave "Thank you," both to Roger and to the crew member who brought the food and now departs with a wave and nod. John daintily unwraps his taco and takes a bite, holding the food in one hand as Freddie paints the fingernails of his other one. He feels rather pampered, unnecessarily so, but cannot stop the boys from helping with his makeup--they hop right to it before every performance without being asked. Roger winks at him now as the bassist looks his way, the former having finished his supper already and is now turning up the collar of his shirt and settling its cloth across his shoulders.

"It's fifteen minutes til curtain, y'all, as us theatre folks say!" Lionel's voice emanates from above them. Brian jumps and Roger lifts his head with a startled curse. Freddie shakes out a jaunty hand and John smiles. "Sorry 'bout that, I just wanted to tell ya I'll be on spotlight crane, middle of the ceiling when you get out there. Break a leg!" He swings himself off down the catwalk leaving the four men to ready themselves.

Brian eats all that he is going to in the next five minutes, and Freddie goes from John to him, applying a rich layer of eyeliner around the guitarist's hazel orbs. Roger offers John a drink and the bassist accepts a shot, clinking his glass against the drummer's as they wait for their final call to the stage.

***

Lights flash up one after another and swoop across the stage--green, orange, white--and then down as the Day At The Races introduction gets going. Sound is up, microphones are live, and here comes Brian's magical guitar sound screaming in to begin 'Tie Your Mother Down' as the band members take their places.

"Take it Rog!" Freddie cries, and Roger gets in all of his best screams for 'Ogre Battle'. "Well bloody _done,_ Blondie! He's a marvel, isn't he?" The lead singer enthuses to the crowd, and his darling drummer beams. John is solid and dependable with Brian's lovely ethereal 'White Queen', going seamlessly into the bassline of 'Somebody To Love'.

Which is when things feel a trifle different.

Queen has not dealt with hecklers before. Certainly there are naysayers in the press and the critics despise their music, but they do have a following and are incredibly lucky in that. It is only a matter of time, however, before any act procures an enemy. And that enemy in this case is hate.

Shouts start when Freddie begins the piano introduction. He sat and lifted the champagne glass he has taken to placing atop the piano before every show. "Cheers to you, darlings," he said, and smiled, teeth gleaming in the spotlight expertly trained upon his seat. _"Caaaaaahn anybody find me--"_

"Wank-sucker!" A deep shout splits the charged air, and Freddie's fingers nearly fumble off the keys. Roger's head shoots up and his eyes flash murderous. Brian rakes his gaze across the crowd as he holds his guitar, along with his breath. He couldn't have just heard that, could he? No. Surely not. How bloody awful....

John steps over to stand next to Freddie, who takes a deep breath and continues singing, flexing his fingers as he plays: _"Somebody to love? Loooo - ah - ove! Each morning I get up I die a little, can barely stand on my feet. Take a look,"_

 _"Take a look at yourself,"_ Roger and Brian are staring into the crowd as they sing harmonies to back up Freddie, searching out the person who'd shouted. And then, standing between the crowd just before the pit and those fans squashed into chairs, dull hateful expression illuminated in the sweeping lights is a face Roger remembers. It is that bastard from the bar in Indianapolis. One of them. No, no way. No fucking way!

_"...In the mirror and cry, lord what you're doing to me--"_

_"Yeah!"_ Roger's voice nearly cracks, it is strained, and Brian glances worriedly at him where he's come up to croon into Bri's mic. The drummer cannot speak, but nods towards the man as his voice again snarls out.

"You SHOULD cry in the mirror, ya fucking poof!" There is silence. Freddie's fingers do drop from the piano keys now and Roger lunges to do what, he does not know, but how fucking dare that bastard even BE here?! 

Brian's eyes are burning with rage and John is not handling this well; the only thing currently keeping him upright is his vicelike grip on Freddie's shoulder. His face is stark white. The lead singer swallows and shifts his shoulders, carefully reaching out and adjusting the microphone over the piano. Tone gentle and surprisingly calm, he leans into the mesh and calls "Lionel, would you be a dear and turn a spotlight onto the lovely audience member who has decided to be vocal?"

Echoing from the catwalk down drifts Lionel's voice: "You got it Mr Freddie sir!" A blazing white light swoops over and shines directly into the face of the standing man, who instantly starts to squint, losing his furious scowl in the brightness. 

"Say it again, darling!" Freddie invites. But the arsehole stands there in silence, fists balled at his sides, and a low hiss rises up from the crowd around him, growing louder and louder. Boos begin to rise from the midst.

"Get outta here, then!" "No one's making ya listen!" "Shame!!!" And then, loudly: "Don't worry bout this fucker, Freddie! Keep playing! Queen, Queen, Queen, Queen, Queen!" All the rest of the audience takes up the chant, clapping in unison until the decibel level rises to a roar.

"Oh, I do wish you could open your mind and be a part of this, but so long, love!" Freddie calls as security guards for the arena make their way to the heckler and begin frog-marching him out. "I would have gladly fucked you." The singer blows him a kiss and the crowd goes berserk, whooping and hooting and hollering. Fred turns back to face his piano again and the spotlight swoops to illuminate the stage once more. "All right, let's start this up again!" He launches into the initial notes of 'Somebody To Love' and this time the entire crowd is singing along:

_Each morning I get up I die a little, can barely stand on my feet, take a loooook in the mirror --and cry-- Lord what you're doin' to me, yeah yeah! I spend all my years in believin' you, but I just can't get no relief, ohh can anybody find me somebody to love!_

"All you beautiful people, I've found you! I adore you all!" Freddie cries out.

__Brian's face splits into an incredulous smile as he watches what he can see of the crowd. Roger is baring his teeth and grinning as he smacks the drums soundly._ _

__John hovers beside Freddie a little longer as another person leaves as well; whoever the heckler had come with, for certainly he could not have been a fan of Queen in his own right with a horrifically expressed small-minded viewpoint like that. The bassist nearly fumbles on his next note. He is forced to look down in order to find it as his hands are more than a trifle shaky and he feels sick. Knocking back that liquor with Roger hadn't been nearly enough to deal with something like this._ _

__John glances back at Rog for reassurance and that fluffy blond head bobs up and down. His eyes still contain a flare of fury as he glances across his set at John, but he smiles at the bassist nevertheless, having spotted the helplessness and worry in John's eyes. Freddie flings himself up from the piano bench and whirls over to John, arm coming around the bass player's back as he leans in, chest heaving, eyes sparkling and alight. Fred is all right now, and at that touch and sight, John feels his muscles and nerves relax as his nausea settles.__

____

____

__If Freddie is all right, then he is too._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where Lionel came from, he's an original character (because i wanted the boys to chat with the crew) but I already love him :P
> 
> *The little argument starting with Brian saying that he is playing exactly what is on the record is one that I heard audio of on YouTube. All four of these boys were and are perfectionists of the highest caliber, and that's what made their music work so well. Plus tiffs come with the territory in a family.
> 
> *The order of songs played comes from the actual setlist of this particular concert in Detroit at the Cobo Arena on 18 January 1977.
> 
> *I was given the inspiration for what happened with the heckler during this show from a suggestion by the lovely QueenRogerina. (Thank you so much, darling!) I am unsure where the actual heckling incident occurred, but thought it would be poignant for it to be one of the rats Roger and Freddie fought in this story. Therefore Brian got to see the denouncement for which he advocated
> 
> Dear John not handling the hatred well I can understand. I have felt similarly when slurs have been voiced regarding friends of mine, so I wrote his reaction especially, and Roger's too, akin to my own
> 
> *Freddie's rather colourful response to the heckler leaving comes from videos of concerts I have watched where he said that he wanted to, well, do everyone there. Raunchy, rip-roaring, cheeky man that he was.
> 
> *Fred's nicknames for Roger come from concert videos too :) "Pretty boy" might be my favourite
> 
> Comments are always welcomed and appreciated <3


	6. There's Winners and There's Losers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tour bus shenanigans and a bit of discussion at a diner

None of the next few concerts could POSSIBLY be nearly so interesting as that one. Fred and the lads profusely thank the crew--Freddie has an enormous hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek ready for Lionel backstage afterwards; and exhorts him to find them if ever he ends up where they are playing again--before they must get back on the road.

The crew members pack them up immediately, PA systems and black boxes with silver hinges holding the speakers, amplifiers, piano, and specialty lights that they take with them--hauling and rolling the equipment out to the bus to place back into its compartments. The band has roadies that stick with them on the bus, helping Miami with his attempts to haul the tools and the band where they have to go.

On the roads to Saginaw and then back down to Kentucky, Roger is able to remain happy --well, happier-- on the bus because he and John begin looking out the windows and listing what they see.

"Grass,"

"Cows."

"Cornfield."

"Another cornfield."

"Trees,"

"Holy shit, a lake!"

"Hay!" John yelled.

"What?" Rog called back.

"I said 'hay', Roger!"

"And I say what d'ya want, Deacy?"

It goes on like this until with a squeal of laughter John spells out "I'm talking about H - A - Y, hay, bales like those big round things, y'know, that people have on farms?"

"Hay, you mean that gross yellow stick-like shite that cows eat?"

"...I don't think cows eat hay, Roger. I was going to describe it as the stuff that looks like your hair."

Roger's eyes bulge and Freddie bursts out laughing. "Oh mother has he got you there, Liz!" Freddie often compares Rog to Elizabeth Taylor, who he thinks is the loveliest woman in the world. Usually Roger would go on about it, but now he pouts and hunches down in his seat, grumbling. 

"...You oughtn't compare me to Liz Taylor when John just said my hair looks like bloody STRAW."

"No, not straw!" John now protested. "Hay is different!"

"Oh, yeah? How?" The drummer folds his arms, glowering fiercely at Deacy. 

"Because... because on farms it's spread out for animals to eat and to help plants grow. Straw is dead and itchy and useless, but hay makes things better. Just like your hair suits you and frames your face in a way that makes you attractive."

Roger stills and stares at John with his mouth hanging open as Brian whistles and Freddie claps. "Oh well DONE, Deaks! What a save, darling. Isn't he wonderous?" Freddie whispers to Brian. 

Bri's black curls bounce as he nods seriously. "Yes. Shut Rog up, didn't it? Roger?" 

The blond drummer blinks slowly and clears his throat. John appears slightly fearful. "...Did you effectively just tell me that my hair is what makes me attractive?"

Deacy blinks at him. Is this a trick question? "Well, no. I said it makes you MORE attractive." His expression is open and honest and sweet even as he blushes a little bashfully. He clenches his teeth and leans back, trying to backpedal in case, "I'm sorry if that offends you, Roger, I didn't-"

"HAY!!" Rog shrieks loudly as he squints out the window past John. His near-sightedness has been working against him, clearly. "I can see the hay now, you smooth bastard!" He dives at Deacy and slaps him on the leg before drawing the youngest into an appreciative hug. They have just driven past some more bales, and sweeping his fringe out of his eyes, Roger adds as he leans back, still holding onto John, "Wait a moment. Ya could've just called them 'hay bales' from the beginning and we wouldn't've needed to HAVE this conversation, John."

"...Well then you never would have found out that I think you're attractive," John returns smoothly. "Hay-hair."

Roger gasps. "I can't believe you-- oh, sod off!" He cries as everyone else on the bus breaks into hysterical laughter. 

Freddie nearly falls to the floor howling. " _Hay-hair!_ Oh, You--you should see your expression, Roger dear!"

"Alright, children," Brian soothes as Roger kiddingly rears up from his seat and moves as if to come towards Freddie. Fred beams back at Brian and also at Rog, whirling round in the aisle, and then he stumbles as the bus lurches. His features go a bit pale. Brian instantly reaches out and grasps him by the waist to stop him from falling. "Fred--"

Patting Brian's hand as he still sways a bit, Freddie soothes "I'm all right, love, it's just bus turbulence."

Brian sighs through his nose, eyes still trained on Freddie's and both hands holding onto his waist, long fingers spread to steady him. Yeah, right. Everyone gets pale when a vehicle moves like that, and doesn't eat supper before a show-- or any food the next day. Yes, Bri had noticed that--he himself doesn't always eat, and Roger in particular gives him shite for it, but Freddie is a man of voracious appetites, in all things. And he hasn't been eating. Food isn't that great here, sure, but still Brian feels he ought to say something. "It's not called turbulence on the ground Fred," he starts. And then "here, sit down." 

Freddie does, allowing the guitarist to sit next to him with an indulging smile. He loves how bossy and superior Bri sometimes gets; it pisses both John and Roger off because they think he's trying to act extra intelligent, but Freddie thinks it's cute. Most of the time. Unless it has something to do with their music, and in that case he will start arguing. Or if Brian gets more worried for Freddie than about himself. "Don't make a fuss, dear, I'm fine. Really." 

Brian doesn't believe him. "You're burning the candle at both ends here, Fred. When was the last time you ate? And don't say last night, because I know for certain that Roger ate your taco," he severely intones. 

"He told me to eat it!" Roger whines from the back. "Don't pin this on me, Bri!"

"I'm not!" Brian bellows back. "Just--he ought to eat now. Is there a food place coming up anywhere soon, Miami?" 

Their accountant driver says over his shoulder "I'm certain we can find one."

Freddie rolls his eyes. "I'm _fine_ , darlings! Ugh, honestly this mother-henning is getting ghastly!" He shoots an intent look at Brian. "You need to eat more too, my love."

"Thank fucking god someone else said it," Roger grumbles. "I've been telling him the same bloody thing for--honestly, since the day we met."

Brian waves his hands in front of his face rapidly. How had his concern gotten so sidetracked? "...This isn't about me," he remonstrates.

"Oh but it is," Freddie's dark eyes twinkle. "You started it." The singer leans in and cups the disgruntled guitarist's lean cheek in his hand. "If you're so worried about me, love, then let me worry for you. I'll eat something at the next place we stop only if you do. So there!" He lets go of Brian and smiles triumphantly. 

Bri sighs. "Fine," he says. "But we're also getting you some bloody vitamin injections if you keep missing meals like this."

Freddie wags his finger at Brian threateningly. "Now now, you know I can make you take vitamins too." At the thought of needles Brian goes pale. "But I won't force you if you wouldn't be able to do it," Freddie adds quickly, seeing the flash of fear in Brian's eyes. "I just want you healthy too, Brian my love."

Brian's adam's apple bobs as he looks into his friend's gentle eyes. "I know," he murmurs. "Thank you, Fred. But you ARE going to eat now, right?"

Freddie flops back onto the seat dramatically. "YES, Brian, I will eat if that makes you happy and gets you to shut up!"

"...Not a chance of that," John lets out a muffled snort from where he has leaned with his arms atop a seat a bit behind theirs, Roger leaning beside him with his head on John's shoulder. "But he talks like that because he cares, you know." 

Again Freddie touches Brian's face with affection, lacing his fingers through the taller man's curls and tugging on them gently. Brian makes a face and Freddie laughs at him. "I do."

***

As they have made it down into Kentucky by now, the eating establishment Miami pulls up to is one that advertises old-fashioned Southern fare, family-style. Roger is practically flying out of the bus and pulling John along by the hand when he sees that there is a shop alongside the restaurant--actually attached to it; carrying all sorts of items, from shirts to soaps to bric-a-brac. "John come on and try out this flannel, mate!" He cries.

Brian goes over to the host stand and takes Freddie with him to get them all a table--Miami is coming in too from the bus, with the roadies, so they will be needing two tables. Bri steers Fred into a seat bodily and says he will be ordering food first, because he knows if he leaves Fred to his own devices the man will charm the pants off everyone and forget to eat.

Their waitress smiles in a motherly fashion and says "You just tell me what it is you want, shug, and we'll make it happen. You boys look like you've been riding down the road for a minute." 

"Heh. You have no idea," Brian smiles, teeth catching his lower lip beneath them as the outside corners of his eyes crinkle. 

"...I see Roger isn't the only one impatient with our form of transportation, darling," Freddie smiles up at his lanky friend with one eyebrow slightly cocked.

Brian laughs, his curls lightly brushing against Freddie's forehead as he nods before gesturing to a seat at the table their waitress has led them to. "Here, Fred. Let's see what this place has got. Do you recommend, erm, any particular dishes, ma'am?" He inquires of the waitress as he sits across from Freddie.

"We have a continetal breakfast that a lotta people enjoy," she says, "though personally I'm partial to the chicken-fried steak platter. Or the chicken and dumplins. You'd get two sides with the plate, and endless biscuits."

Stretching himself, Fred beams with that fabulous Freddie Mercury charm that makes any person he is speaking to feel like the most lovely, special, important, SEEN individual in the world...at least that is how Brian always feels for a single shining moment before he retreats back inside his head and convinces himself he doesn't deserve or merit that look. But this woman seems different from him, she gets a trifle fluttery. "Do you have any astounding vegetable plates, with a ... protein alternative, perhaps? My sweet friend is a vegetarian, you see, but never wants to put anyone out and so doesn't offer up information about it."

Brian squeezes his eyes shut with a windy sigh. "Ah, c'mon! Honestly, Fred, I--"

Freddie pooh-poohs his attempt to speak with a wave of one hand and leans across their table with the other, placing it across Brian's lips to stifle his imminent retort. His eyes clearly reiterate their agreement: if he is to eat, Brian will eat too. No matter if Freddie has to forcefully find viable sustenance options; he will gladly do so without fuss for his beloved Brian.

Their waitress smiles and pats Brian on the shoulder. "It's not a problem, sugar, no problem at all. I'll just let our cooks know. We've got a plate of collard greens on the menu, and might could add some okra and eggs to it, if you can eat those."

Brian's shoulders drop and he nods, accepting her offer. He appreciates it, he does, though he doubts he will ever be able to understand such kindness. Freddie drops his hand from Brian's mouth in triumph. "Yes, I can eat eggs. Er, I mean I do. That'd be lovely, thanks."

"Of course! Let me just get some menus for you boys," she says and while walking off to grab some, she nearly runs right into Roger, who is leading John over to the table and beaming.

"We have GOT to get Johnny one of those flannel shirts, because damn can he wear them-- 'specially the red." He grins back at John, who is blushing furiously at the compliment.

"Alright, Blondie, we shall get him one --we must-- but let's eat first or Brian is going to have my head," Freddie says. Roger makes a face, scrunching up his nose and sticking his tongue out as he plops into the chair beside Brian's. Deacy is far more sedate as he moves across to sit next to Freddie, and Miami is patiently herding all of the roadies into chairs a few tables over, as there would be no way for wait staff to move freely around a single large table. Plus, it would be against fire code to clog up the aisles.

"Fine, whaddave we got?" Roger chimes, stretching his legs up in front of him only to receive Brian's ultimate quelling look as he rests an ankle on the corner of the table. With an elaborate pouty sigh, Rog pulls it down and contents himself by playing footsie with John til the bassist lifts Roger's legs up and lays them across his own lap. Roger groans, both with pain and in thankfulness. So many tight muscles... "Damn tour buses," he growls. "If I ever volunteer the idea for us to drive everywhere --or anywhere-- after this tour, one of you please just shoot me."

John squeezes Roger's leg with a soft sympathetic smile as Freddie guffaws. "Oh darling, don't try suicide."

"It wouldn't BE suicide," Roger now grumbles. "One.of you lot would have to do it."

"So suicide is off the table, but you're alright with murder." John smacks his lips. "Well, that's comforting," he deadpans.

Brian snickers and Roger shoves him lightly. "Oh piss off, the pair of you," but his expression is amiable.

Their waitress returns to their table with menus and asks if they would like to start off with something to drink.

"I'd like some blackberry tea, please," Roger says. She smiles as she takes his order down.

"Er. I'll try the--strawberry lemonade," John sputters over his words just a bit.

Til Freddie leans over and asks "Darling, where is THAT?"

"Here, Freddie," John flips the menu over and taps on the very bottom of the back page. 

"Oh I didn't even bother glancing at the back page, Cleverclogs," Freddie affectionately ruffles John's hair. "I shall have what he is having; it sounds fabulous."

"It is," the waitress smiles. "And you, hon?" She now asks Brian. He is staring off, not at the menu but beyond it, even as he holds the paper lightly in his long hands. He appears a million miles away, and she pats his shoulder to call him back.

"Oh!" Brian jerks and blinks rapidly. "I'm sorry, did you ask me something?"

"Yes, what would you like to drink, shug? Oh and I already put the order in for your veggie plate."

"I--thank you," Brian says to her, ducking his head a bit. "I'll have a coffee, please. With three sugars." She nods and briskly pats him on the shoulder again as he hands his menu to her.

Something in her manner reminds Brian of his mum, and he has to swallow hard and look away to choke back the hot rush of tears that come into and sting his eyes all of a sudden. His left fist clenches, and he does not realise he has grabbed onto Roger's hand until his friend hisses "Mate, if you don't loosen your grip a bit I won't be playing drums tonight. Ah!" Brian looks down and lets go instantly; he must have grabbed hold of Rog when the waitress patted his shoulder. She is nowhere to be seen now, however; probably back in the kitchen putting in their drink order. Roger's high husky tone softly asks "Bri, are you doing all right?"

Brian's lips twitch. "...I certainly should be," he replies, but when Roger's bright eyes do not leave his face, the guitarist settles his shoulders and pats Rog's hand. "I'm okay, Rogie. Just--got reminded of something, is all. Someone." Roger briefly squints at him and then nods, flipping his hand over to catch hold of Brian's fingers and give them a squeeze. Brian gets a lump in his throat and has to blink away another rush of tears. Quick as a whip and a damn good mate Roger is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The hay/hey situation actually happened once to me while I was on a road trip with my family, haha. Also John and Roger are so sweet and giggly with each other in interviews, John also talked about Rog being attractive (in particular on a Japanese game show once :P I love their friendship)
> 
> *Apparently Freddie did call Roger "Liz" sometimes, which is honestly accurate I think because he cute
> 
> *At the thought of needles Brian goes pale. = Brian had hepatitis in 1974, and I think he likely contracted it from a botched vaccination before their going to Australia on tour that year. So I wouldn't be surprised if he has concerns about needles, and included that little bit of fear here. Also Fred mentioned surviving on "jabs" in an interview (which are vitamin B12 injections, typically) so those are the vitamins Brian suggested/referred to
> 
> *As they have made it down into Kentucky by now = I still consider this a Midwestern tour, because most of the first part of it took place there; however the band does venture south (as well as up into Canada and over to New York later on)
> 
> *The entire description of the eating establishment in this chapter, and even the waitress herself, is based on an experience (well, several) that I have had in Cracker Barrel, a restaurant chain across the southern portion of the United States.
> 
> Comments are very welcome :)


	7. 'Cause the Simple Man, Baby, Pays the Thrills

After the excursion to that southern restaurant, where at least half of the meal was taken up by a discussion of what the fuck is fried okra? And why the hell would someone bother to fry it? (Roger) and the fact that those supposed biscuits and gravy...are most definitely NOT biscuits and gravy, save yourself John (Brian and Freddie, mostly Freddie). But the strawberry lemonade had been bloody excellent, and their sweet waitress gave them all to-go helpings of their meals because: "You're going to be riding in the car for a while longer, I can tell," she said. 

Brian had softly, profusely thanked her and gone to pay whilst Freddie was dragged over to the flannel shirts by Roger; and John, as sensible as ever, went to the loo. Freddie came up to the counter with a pile of shirts-- "I'm sure John doesn't need that many flannels Fred,"

"Oh no darling, they're for all of us! John is red, of course, Roger's blue, you're green, and I'm yellow! Do you think Miami would want--?"

"NO." 

Freddie had pouted and Brian gave in, as per usual, letting him buy a blanket that was pretty bloody soft, actually, and a pair of sunglasses for Jim Beach's poor eyes since he is driving them all this way. John returns in time to help drag Roger away from the eyeglass rack and they haul themselves back onto the bus to head through the Kentucky mountains.

***

Mountain drives are probably the worst.

Previously the boys hadn't much experience with mountains, not ones like these-- the British isles are not exactly known for their craggy peaks. And Americans don't seem to concern themselves with winding roads not having guardrails, never mind the fact that large vehicles do not have the tightest turning radius. 

Miami has his work cut out for him on this portion of the drive and Roger is chomping on gum and hanging his head out the back window once the roads start to get really curvy. John has curled up with his head practically between his knees, even though Brian is exhorting him to look up towards the horizon in order to lessen the swooping nauseous feeling in his stomach. Bri is rather pale as well, however. Eventually he gives up trying to watch the horizon and buries his face in John's soft hair. John cuddles into Bri's chest and --somehow-- manages to fall asleep. Lucky bastard.

Only Freddie appears completely unaffected; he has twirled round in his seat and is currently humming 'Keep Yourself Alive' in an excruciatingly jaunty manner that makes Brian briefly contemplate murder.

And then Freddie and Rog start chucking bits of biscuit (well, not-biscuit, American biscuit) from their plates of diner food at one another, giggling madly, and Bri washes his hands of it. He brushes a bit of the pale crumbly food out of his hair, where a piece had gotten lodged in an exuberant toss from Roger.

Hunkering down and curling his lanky form around John, the guitarist eventually manages to drift into a light doze as he listens to Deacy's soft breaths as he sleeps. Bri feels the warm huffs of air against the skin of his chest and throat where his shirt opens, and John's gentle hands press against his body, curling round and holding Brian close, as if even in unconsciousness the bassist can tell Brian needs the proximity. Dear intuitive Deacy.

Brian relaxes into his friend's embrace as he hears the bus engine thrum and rumble beneath them, purring like some enormous contented cat; though as Bri falls asleep he doubts it --well, whether or not anyone or anything could be really, truly content driving on such a steep and swerving grade as this.

John wakes sometime later to hear no more engine rumbles, and to feel warm. Softness tickles and brushes against his face in the form of black curls and he looks up to see Brian's thin features resting above him. Smoothed out by sleep, the worry and sadness that he so often sees in his friend's countenance are gone with relaxation. Bri's long arms are wrapped around John, holding him securely as their bodies fit together on the seat. John does not want to move a bit, doesn't want to wake Bri and bring that ever-present worry back into the crinkling of his eyes, the set of his shoulders. He had seen it flare out on the night before their show in Detroit and hopes the worry will be, can be tamped down, but he also understands that like his own anxieties, worries are a typical conscious state for Brian. Which is most certainly exhausting, and yet another reason why Deacy does not want to wake him. 

And yet he knows that he must, for he shifts his eyes to see Miami stand and leave the driver's seat and hears Freddie and Roger shoving about in the rear of the vehicle. John clears his throat and moves his hand to pat Brian's side. "Brian," he murmurs. "Hey, Bri."

With a sharp intake of breath and a fluttering of lashes, Brian May opens his eyes. Shaking his head back and forth a bit, his arms tighten as his body jerks into wakefulness. "Hi John," he says, voice roughened from unconsciousness. "You sleep alright?"

"Yeah, you?"

Bri moves to sit upright, stretching his legs as John rises also. "Well, I do wish the bus seats were a wee bit longer, but otherwise I'm good. Yes. Ready for the next show. Have we arrived?"

"We have," Miami tells them, blotting his face with a handkerchief. "It was a tough go on some of those mountains, but we are here."

"And made it in one piece, thanks to you," Brian says. 

"Thanks," John adds. Miami's face softens and he pats their shoulders.

"Glad to help out, boys."

"Yes, it wasn't even all that horrid!" Roger calls out. "Well. Not for _us_ , though I would've appreciated a bloody nap."

"Nothing was stopping you from sleeping, Roger-- to accomplish that, you just have to lay down and stop talking. Oh, wait..."

"Oh har har," Rog makes a face and flashes an obscene gesture at both Brian and John, the former because he had spoken and the latter because he is giggling madly. "Don't encourage him, Deacy--his head's too big already." He ruffles Brian's hair as he passes by.

"Oi! Mind the fringe!" Brian protests. 

Freddie clucks. "You were just asleep, and I can fix it for you later, Bri my darling. Don't be so dramatic."

Brian ducks his face and smiles as Freddie strolls up the bus aisle; he cannot help it. There's just something about the man that always has the power to bring a smile to his face. Watching Bri's expression light up unbidden as he gazes at Fred makes John's chest twinge but he pushes that sensation out of his thoughts as soon as it comes. No need to take focus off the show by focusing on ...that. Whatever it is. "...You got it. Sorry Fred."

Freddie beams and strokes Brian's cheek, the lean guitarist lowering his head, face pressing into the singer's hand, skin flushing a wee bit. Freddie's tone is exasperated yet fond, impossibly fond. As it always gets when he speaks to Brian: "Oh save it, darling. Let's just get on and do this fucking thing, shall we?"

***

Fred is true to his word; he fluffs up Brian's curls and carefully styles his hair for him. Bri gets out to the stage first, plugging his guitar into John's homemade amplifier and turning up its sound to check on the tuning. Standing close to the amp and ducking his head down, Bri strums the strings of his Old Lady as roadies haul more amps and extend electrical cords for microphones across the stage, taping the cords down at regular intervals.

John comes out of the green room next with Freddie, a surprise, as typically Fred is late. "Brian," the bassist calls and plugs in his instrument to the amp as well, starting in on his rhythm chords. They start in singing the harmonies of 'Killer Queen' working them out together as Freddie swings his mic stand back and forth, keeping time. 

Brian catches Fred's eye and quirks an eyebrow, a nonverbal query as to Roger's whereabouts. Freddie waggles his own eyebrows and mouths: _with a girl_. Bri rolls his eyes. Of course that would be Roger's reason for lateness, and he can ALWAYS find a girl. Anywhere, and everywhere, they go. Brian would be impressed, maybe, if he wasn't committed to Chrissie and didn't miss her terribly. He glances over at John as they are singing. Wonders how he does it, because he seems so collected about his wife and life with her. He calls Veronica at least once a week, sometimes more, but it doesn't seem upsetting for him to do so.

Whenever Brian talks to his wife he remembers just how much he misses her and is down for several hours afterwards, at the least. John's over here the picture of domestic bliss; his worries stem from their lifestyle and from touring. He is happy at home. It hits Brian that perhaps he is not, and might never be; more of a probability closing in on certainty that he won't be able to stop doing this. He loves music too much. Yet another reason Bri feels torn and guilty in regards to his family.

For an infinitesimal moment the guitarist closes his eyes. He likes to get and keep his head in front of his fingers, but this is NOT the way to do it. Come on, Brian. Get it together. Focusing back on his playing, he catches onto the tail-end of a lyric: _"--complications, she never kept the same address; in conversation, she spoke just like a baroness..."_

He slides the notes, once and twice; closing his eyes again, wondering if he will ever see anyone he loves in the front row... _"Fastidious and precise, she's a killer Queen gunpowder, gelatin, dynamite with a laser beam,"_

Another voice comes in, wailing perfectly on the falsetto: _"Ahh, ah, guaranteed to blow your mind--anytime. Anytime!"_ Roger pulls at his wristbands and smooths down his rumpled hair, buttoning his shirt as he strides across the stage to join in their harmony.

The cavernous space, old and built of brick and mortar, echoes like some great assembly hall or courtroom; it reminds the boys of various halls at University. The difference is that this particular hall seats six thousand souls and was built specifically for concerts and the arts, so its acoustic nature is far and above that of Cobo Arena. At least, that is what the harmonising echo is telling the members of Queen right now. Even with Rog sauntering in late to budge up behind his drum kit, his voice still melds with theirs seamlessly, and the crew on the outermost edges of the enormous rectangular space can hear their every projected word. Making Roger grin and Brian relax a bit. John checks on the amount of space behind his amp and looks over to the crew members who seem to have the most fun in various states of intoxication. He has to stay seen and stable, and to do that...well, he is rested today, but a little alcohol hasn't hurt him yet. Freddie is fussing over Brian's flowing sleeves and their shiny white fabric decorated with colourful swirls as the lights go down and smoke starts seeping on-stage.

Rog picks up and flips his drumsticks as he situates himself on his stool. John looks over with a cocked brow and Rog grins hugely, indicating not only the fact that he is ready and raring to go but how spectacular his experience with the lass backstage was. John rolls his eyes and Brian shakes his head as they all head off to make an entrance. "Don't judge!" The drummer calls. "You know you'd do it if you could!"

"Different strokes, darling," Freddie purrs, which makes John laugh and Brian cracks a smile as well. "Are we ready, loves?"

Brian nods; John takes a steadying breath as he sees one of the crew put a bottle next to his amplifier, and "Ready, Freddie!!" Roars out Roger.

"All RIGHT!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *They start in singing the harmonies of 'Killer Queen' working them out together = in a television special about Queen, Brian and Roger mentioned the fact that they always work harmonies of songs together before shows, often in their dressing room as an exercise to get them sharp. 
> 
> Reason I didn't have this harmony session in the dressing room is because Rog was there with a girl, and well... :P
> 
> Sorry for my extended absence, darlings, but I am back! I've missed this story and you all (despite the fact that I was away writing another piece about Queen, haha).
> 
> Comments are always appreciated <3


	8. The Bills and the Pills that Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worries are going around as the band heads up to Canada, and Freddie decides to do something for Brian
> 
> (Honestly at this rate I don't know why I'm calling this a Midwestern tour. Ah well)

After Kentucky the band heads north again, passing back through Michigan and Ohio and up to Canada, which is a whole 'nother beast due to checkpoints alone.

"What d'ya mean I have to get outta here?!" Roger yells angrily. "I barely slept in that blasted vibrating bed last night, and you're telling me I've got to get out of this bus, in the middle of bloody nowhere--"

"This isn't nowhere, mate; it's Canada," John puts in with an apologetic smile for the border guard whose job it is to check their papers. The man sighs. 

"Same difference," Roger gripes.

"Hey, there are some folks around here who'd say it's different, don'tcha know," the guard says.

Roger whips his head round, blond tresses shining through the window, and glowers with half-lidded eyes that narrow even more and sparkle in challenge. "Yeah? Well where are they? You--"

"No I'm sorry, we don't know," Brian interjects hurriedly, cutting off what is certain to be an expletive-laced tirade. "Lean on me if you have to, Roger, but get off the bloody seat--we've got to get out and do this."

"We must showcase our papers," Freddie flourishes a dainty hand as he pulls on his fringed jacket and pushes up his sunglasses. "Got to make a good impression on the mannerly neighbors to America's north."

Roger growls and slaps at Brian's extended hand. "Oh shove off, I've got it," he grumbles, holding onto the cloth covers of the seats in front of him and lifting himself into a standing position with a groan. "I'm not a bloody child, Brian."

"No, you just act like one," the guitarist snaps, temper fraying now in earnest. He understands Rog's irritation, truly he does, and they're going to turn right round and drive back here in a couple of days, but that isn't the point; they still have got to cooperate. This man is simply doing his job and keeping the borders safe. Safe from what, who knows? But they cannot moan and groan or get out of being checked on.

Roger blinks, hurt flashing through and disappearing from his eyes at Brian's words. He knows that he isn't like Brian, he's volatile and loud as hell but he isn't a _child._ And it's not like Brian is a ruddy saint or something anyway. He is ready to open his mouth again or maybe let his fist fly, but then he takes in the look on Brian's face, the weariness. Something makes him think about Bri being lonely, and missing his wife and how he said he misses his parents, and so Rog stands and moves towards the front of the bus without any more complaints, simply tossing back in jest: "Yeah, well. I'm your child then, mate."

"...oh good Lord forbid," Brian mumbles. Isn't certain he believes in God but he'd believe in anything if that were somehow the case--though it practically is on tour; Freddie at least can sometimes censor himself off stage, but Roger... he's a handful. More than a handful. But Bri is all in to handle him; has been from the very beginning.

Brian shakes his head but his eyes twinkle with humour and Roger relaxes at that sight, his hurt slipping away. There. He can take Brian's weary exasperation as Bri deals with his ornery explosions.

The four bandmates trail to the front of the bus and exit to stand next to its door as Miami gets their papers together for the border patrolman to look over.

They all are exhausted at this juncture; Freddie had caved and gotten some vitamin injections when they were in Kalamazoo, and he is explaining those syringes to the guard now: "It's just a little jab, darling. Vitamin, ah, B12, I believe. It keeps us going on these long roads." The guard checks out the kit and radios to his comrade before nodding at Freddie.

"You're all good, but try some grub while you're here, eh? We've got some good fish joints. Just watch out for the Newfies," he adds in a conspiratorial manner. 

"We're going to Ottawa," Pipes John. "And then Montreal."

"How're the girls in Ottawa?" Roger queries. 

Brian pinches the bridge of his nose. "Oh for the love of..."

The guard laughs. "Ah we've got some good enough, don'tcha know," he says, handing back each of the band's passports one at a time. "All's well here, John Deacon, Roger Taylor, Brian May, Freddie Mercury, and you are set, Mr. Beach. Welcome to Canada. Have fun." 

"Always, darling!" Freddie enthuses with a blinding grin. "Thank you so much."

"Cheers," adds Brian and John smiles. Roger lifts a hand with a grin, his clenched-teeth _I don't want to be here, let's get on for fucks' sake_ smile. Miami shakes the hand of the man on border patrol and everyone traipses back onto the bus for the remainder of their journey up into Ottawa.

At least seven more bloody hours of it.

***

They are headed to the Civic Center and will be going right in the moment they arrive, so it's up to the band to dress and ready themselves on the bus beforehand. Which is why Brian picks a loose, easy-to-put-on, blowsy white shirt to wear this time. Rog goes with him on the white front with a button-down, and John breaks the mould a wee bit with a lavender t-shirt. But Freddie is wearing his white unitard with the tiniest smidgen of silver trim; and if anything had been left to the imagination before, it would certainly not be now. 

"Don't fall on your face Fred," Brian advises as the bus takes a curve while Freddie is trying to pull the tight material over his legs one at a time, swinging freely because there is no room for undershorts in this getup. 

"And we don't want you losing your jewels," Roger's husky voice breaks in amusement. "That'd be a bloody disaster."

Freddie flaps a hand at him. "Pshaw, you're just worried because if I no longer had them I could match your falsetto, darling. Well, there is no chance," he hikes the material up with a jump. "Because I've got it--oh!" The bus moves quicker for a moment and Freddie stumbles and would have landed flat on his back in the aisle if John had not been by to grab him in his wiry arms. He stands up from his seat, leaning against it, and catches Freddie as he lurches, leaving his feet. Feels Fred's heart beating rather fast as his chest hair tickles John's skin. The bassist slides down to steady his friend, fingers bracing his hips and holding him upright as Freddie pulls the shoulder straps of his costume on, murmuring "Thank you for saving me, love." 

John nods, lips rolling before he responds "Not a problem, Freddie."

"Nearly went arse over tit, didn't I?"

"You are lucky John was there to grab you!" Brian calls from his seat nearer the front, light eyes pinned onto their front man reproachfully. "If he hadn't been--"

"...If he hadn't been, we'd be up a creek, but he was, so don't fuss, Brian my darling." Freddie soothes, wiggling his shoulders and stretching out his legs. "I'm perfectly fine."

Freddie crawls -carefully, hanging onto every seat as he moves- up to Brian to check on the state of his makeup; or rather to put ON his makeup because however often Bri is exhorted to do so, he forgets to shadow one eye, or doesn't apply mascara, and sometimes just sits staring at the foundation like it could share some secret of the universe with him. Freddie doesn't know, but he is happy to assist Brian. 

Roger works on John in the back, giving him some base and blush as well as mascara so as to ensure he does not appear washed-out under the powerful stage lights.

Brian does not look at Freddie when the other sighs as he sits down next to the guitarist, draping his limbs across the seat and chirping cheerily "Let's rim those lovely eyes of yours, Bri!" When Brian only ducks his face, hands clenching and unclenching atop his knobbly knees, Freddie reaches out and caresses his lean cheek with the backs of his knuckles. Sweetly, as light as a butterfly's kiss. "What is it, Brian? Do talk to me--or look at me, at the very least. Brian." Freddie's fingertips catch hold of and grasp Brian's chin, lifting his head up in a gentle manner. His lips cover his teeth as he peers closely at his friend's thin features, eyes warm with care and affection.

Brian feels himself start to shake, and he closes his eyes for a moment. He wants to say that it's nothing, to fake a smile and go on--they have a show to do tonight, for fucks' sake; he oughtn't be having this bloody crisis _now._ "I'm sorry, Freddie," he chokes out instantly. "I shouldn't keep carrying on like this over nothing...." His curls are shivering as his head does and he bites his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth.

"Oh, Brian." His friend is so calm as he strokes Bri's chin tenderly with his thumb. "It's certainly not nothing, because it's upsetting you, darling. So do go on-- tell your Freddie what is wrong."

Oh, Fred. How altruistic you are. It's one of the many reasons I adore you. "I--told Roger," Brian gulps a bit. "... earlier, in Detroit, I told him that I miss my family. Well, more like he got it out of me. You know Rogie." Freddie chuckles; he most certainly does. "And just--just now, when you nearly fell, I think because I miss them it...well, it frightened me so much, Freddie. So fiercely." Brian shudders. "My dad doesn't speak to me, and I...I thought, I could have lost you there. I could lose you and the boys--and then what would I have? Nothing. Absolutely _nothing._ " he knows he is being irrational, because he has his wife at home, and his mother, even in the midst of all this turmoil. And his father, too, his dad still cares for him--at least he does if Roger is right. But still. Brian swallows and looks into Freddie's eyes, his own still so full of woe. "That's it, then. That's what's wrong."

Freddie's lip trembles and he shakes his head, pulling Brian against him, almost violently, hand grasping the back of his friend's head, fingers threading through his curly hair. Bri shuts his eyes tight and nuzzles his chin into Freddie's shoulder, pressing the side of his face into his friend's neck and hair. 

Running his other hand up and down Brian's back, bumping over his vertebrae and caressing his shoulder blades, the rich voice of the singer soothes "You have me, my darling, my dearest love. You will always have me. I hope you know that." He sniffs and leans back just a bit to look into Brian's eyes. "And the boys too. We are bound together in heart, in spirit, the four of us." He smiles. That expression is like the sun, the birth of a star, a supernova--utterly brilliant and dazzling and Brian cannot look away. He does not want to. "I will do whatever you need me to do about your family," Freddie adds. "I'll charter a plane to bring them out here, or fly us back to your parents' door with fanfare, right now, so they can have their heads knocked together by Roger." Freddie's lips stretch away from his teeth as he smiles, a real, gigantic smile. It's the most beautiful thing Brian has ever seen. "But I adore you, darling, and I want you to know I'd do that, do anything. Spare no expense. You ought to be happy in your life, doing this. ARE you happy, Brian?"

"I..." Bri is floored by Freddie's generosity, as always, even as he knows it is a constant. He sniffs hard, mulling over the question. "Doing this, I love it," he says at last in earnest, his expression forthright. "Even with all the traveling, the food, the ridiculously priced hotels...yes, I'm happy doing this with you, Fred." His gaze becomes piteous. "...But somehow it doesn't stop me from feeling unhappy about other things, or from worrying endlessly, and I--I HATE that." His fists clench against Freddie's back as he whimpers "But I don't think I can stop."

"You don't have to stop," Freddie says, lifting a hand and twirling a few of Brian's curls between his fingers. "That isn't in your nature, Brian. You want things to be proper and right all the time." Bri nods. Fred certainly knows him well. "This is who you are, love, but it doesn't mean that you have to suffer it alone. You have me, and John, and Roger-- and honestly you really ought to call your wife, my dear." He yanks on a curl as Brian's face twitches. "She can help you, surely. At least hearing her voice. I found that with Mary," Freddie murmurs. "It was good to talk to her. And your father will come round." The singer's eyes start to dance with one of his outlandish ideas, but Brian doesn't see this, as his eyes have filled with tears. "I am certain of it." 

Freddie pulls Brian close again as the guitarist croaks out "What did I do to get so incredibly lucky, Fred?" 

"You must have excelled in a past life, darling," Freddie tells him. "Though, you being you, I'd expect nothing less."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcomed :)


	9. What Do They Know, Know, Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Along the way back down from Canada to the northeastern US, a plan is put in motion
> 
> Warning for mention of over-imbibing of alcohol and copious amounts of vomiting described below. Don't try this at home!

John keeps a close eye on the band's finances and their path through North America. He's noticed (and noted) that the track of their tour zigzags north and south and east and then back south again. Looking over and marking up a map of their concerts gives him a pounding headache. And then Roger comes over to him whispering loudly: "Deaks. I need your help with something, mate. And we've got to keep it hushed up, like, so I don't get in trouble with Brian."

John closes his eyes and puts his fingers to his temples. Oh, no. Trouble for Roger can only mean one thing. Or a few. "...Who called you?" He asks. "Or how many, I should say?"

Roger draws his head back and shakes it. "What? No, no one's called yet--I want to make sure we find the easiest show for them to get to as a surprise."

John blinks, utterly confused. "What? Roger, what are you talking about?"

"What are YOU talking about, John?" The drummer countered. "...I was wondering if you can look at our upcoming concerts and see where's easiest for Brian's parents to get to. Which venue is, I mean. Why, what were you thinking I meant?"

John lets out a peal of laughter. "Well come _on,_ Rog, you know what you do--I think I'm justified in wondering whether or not one of the girls you've been with has, er come back with a surprise, so to speak. Unless you purposefully misfire every time," he finishes.

Roger lifts his eyebrows and whistles. "Wow. Alright, John. I'm not admitting to anything," and he bursts into laughter along with the bassist, who is shaking his head as he chuckles.

"Well, okay. Here." John sniffs in mirth and focuses on their future venues. "Erm..." He bends over the map and taps it with a finger. "What about New York? We're going to be in the Garden."

"Madison Square Garden," Roger whistles again. "...And that's a pretty quick flight, too. To get there."

"Right." John nods. "Yes, it is."

"Shit," Roger suddenly breathes, slapping at John's arms rapidly, using both hands in a flurry of motion. "Shit shit shit, cover the map, quick--"

"What in the hell, Roger?!" John looks up and is ready to hit him back, but then he spots Freddie coming towards them, swaying with the movement of the bus. "Oh."

"What are you sneaky young things getting up to back here?" The singer purrs, reaching their seat and smiling down at them.

"Noth--nothing, not a thing, ahem." Roger grins at Freddie as John leans on his forearms to obscure the map at which they were looking. "... Where's Brian got to?"

"He's up in front with Miami, trying to extend our wait time in the cities so he can go to some bloody _museums_ ," Freddie scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Honestly unless one has got a section on fashion from the thirties, count me out." He leans down on John's shoulder, still smiling as he strokes the bassist's hair, dipping his face close to the crown of his head. "Now, are you going to tell me what is going on, or will I have to get it out of you somehow, Deacy dear?"

John is sweating. He squeaks as Freddie drops gentle hands onto and begins massaging his shoulders. John's head falls back with an appreciative groan. "Oh, Freddie--"

"Stay strong, Johnny," Roger hisses, now slapping at Freddie's hands. "Quit that Fred, we don't know how thick you're in with Brian."

"Oho, this has something to do with him, then?" Freddie questioned, and John sighs at Roger in exasperation as the singer's hands stop kneading his skin.

"Oh well done, Roger. We have to tell him now; he's guessed."

"He hasn't! I didn't say anything!" The drummer protests. John simply levels his eyes at him. "... Alright, fine. But I want the record to show it isn't my fault that we're telling him."

Freddie puts his face between theirs and looks back and forth from Roger to John quizzically. "Telling me WHAT, darlings? Get it out if you're going to, please, I'm about to burst!"

Roger has started smirking at those particular words, and John cuffs him before whispering "We want to find a way to get Brian's parents to come to a concert, and we thought..."

"...bringing them to Madison Square Garden is the best choice," Roger finishes. "But we don't want to tell Bri. It ought to be a surprise, like, and plus don't want to get his hopes up, y'know."

Freddie presses his lips together as they tremble with emotion. "I do know," he murmurs. "But this is wonderful, darlings. A beautiful gesture for our Bri. I adore it. Why wouldn't you tell me?"

"Well, we...I dunno, we thought you might accidentally spill the beans to Brian," John offers apologetically. "Sorry."

"You do tend to get excited about things and blurt out, Fred," Roger adds. "I know I do, and figured I'd try and spare you."

"Well." Freddie draws himself up primly and folds his arms. "You are forgiven, this time. But I want to help. Have you gotten in touch with them yet?" 

"Er...no," Rog and John admit.

"Now that you're onboard, maybe you can do it?" Roger suggests, his tone elaborately cheery and light.

"You are lucky I adore you, Rog," Freddie speaks severely. "That was a dirty trick." Roger attempts to appear contrite and fails miserably. "--But I shall do it," the singer offers magnanimously after a moment in which John particularly grows rather nervous. "For the love we bear to Brian."

Roger pumps his fist in victory and grins. "Good man! No, no, _great_. This is great."

Freddie beams and then hears a call from Brian, asking him to come up front. "On my way, dear," the singer returns, winking at John and Rog before he moves.

John squints after him and murmurs "...If i didn't know better I'd say he was planning on getting in touch with Bri's parents before even talking to us."

"Wouldn't be surprised," Roger snorts. "He's sly for certain, our dearest Freddie." Deliberately turning and facing John after a moment, the blond arches his eyebrows suggestively. "Now, let's go back to earlier--what was it you were saying about me and a purposeful misfire?"

"Well...,"

***

They've got ten days.

Ten days to finagle a visit from Bri's parents. Ten days to help him reconnect with them. Freddie knows this is a tall order, but with three-quarters of the band, they can do it. First they'll have to explain the plan to Miami, and get their new manager to sign off afterwards. And then it's up to Brian's parents and whether or not they're able, and willing, to be convinced. Which of course is where Freddie comes in with his charms. At least, according to Roger. Partly, (well mostly, if he's being honest--) he doesn't want to put calling the Mays on his own shoulders because he would likely start swearing at them and refuse to stop until they came, which is not conducive to unforced, consensual behaviour. Not to mention that Brian would never forgive him if Roger were to actually curse at his mother and father.

Roger is well-aware of that fact, and yet the vehement love and protectiveness he feels on behalf of Brian as he witnesses his loneliness and isolation, how crippling it is for him to be estranged from erstwhile loving supportive parents... well, suffice to say, Roger's blood boils with all those feelings so he has to take breaths and offer to do something else instead.

...Which is why, on the road to Chicago (before they get back into America, actually, and are driving down the Trans Canadian Highway) Roger looks at John and Freddie meaningfully before going up front to speak to Miami. John in particular realises what the drummer is up to and asks Brian and Freddie if he can try his hand beating them, or attempting to beat them at Scrabble. "...Because I know it's probably a hopeless task to try to beat Brian, but what can I say? I like a challenge. Idle hands, right?" 

Brian smiles as Freddie crows "Excellent idea, darling!" and the three move towards the rear to put Scrabble on a table, John making sure he and Freddie sit together facing the front as Bri leans his long back over top of the table, dark head bowing forward in concentration.

"Bring it on, John."

"Hullo Miami," Roger says cheerily to the craggy-faced accountant driver. 

Miami glances sideways at him with a nod. "Hello, Roger. To what do I owe this...pleasure? You're never at the front of the bus; I know this isn't your favourite place by any means."

Roger laughs, roughing up his hair in a bit of discomfort. Miami is certainly sharp. "What are you talking about?" He attempts to demure. "I've always wanted to come up here, and figured this was the best time. Sooo, er. How's driving?"

"It's a handful, certainly," is the answer. "I've got you lot in the back, along with radio calls about roadways and traffic and weather around and ahead. This is certainly an eye-opening experience." 

Roger tries to kid "Certainly nothing like what you thought you'd be doing, eh? But still great, right?" His words hang in the air as a question borne of uncertainty. Drat. He hates sounding like a child, but feels like he does so around Miami. He's the chatty one, the loud, boisterous, probably irritating due to whining in the back of the bus, member of the band.

Miami's tone of voice is dry. "I won't complain about it. It has been...interesting, certainly. But you aren't only up here to ask me about my driving, Roger. What else is on your mind?"

Damn. How does he do that? Roger swallows and decides to blurt out, his fingers tapping a beat on the edge of the seat: "Well, heh. Actually, the thing is, I was wondering how we stand on ticket sales and erm...money matters. Because the boys- well, me and John and Freddie, we want to invite Brian's parents to a concert. Bring them there and back. Overnight, or what have you, but --we don't know where our money stands and if we have enough time to do it."

The driver stares in silence out of the windshield, and Roger feels his palms begin to sweat. He risks a quick peek over his shoulder to spot Freddie's warm gaze on him, encouraging. Dear Fred. The singer blows him a kiss before Rog hears their accountant clear his throat and whips his head back round, so fast that he nearly dizzies himself as the bus takes a turn off the highway to a checkpoint road. "Well. That is a noble endeavour to attempt, Roger. For what venue would you have them appear?"

Roger's breath whooshes out. He hadn't even realised he had been holding it. Miami is actually considering this! "Erm -we were thinking, well, it'd be nice to have them come to a larger venue, more impressive, you know. And something that isn't too terribly far. So what about the Garden? Madison Square Garden?"

"New York, New York." Miami taps his thumb against the steering wheel, silent again. Roger wants to shake an answer out of him, but knows that will not do anything, so contents himself with twisting his fingers together in agitation. "...I can make some calls," he offers at last. "You lot will want to get in touch with them yourselves, aye?"

Roger nods. "Yes. I think...Freddie's going to handle that."

Miami chuckles. "Good choice. Who can say no to Freddie Mercury? I will check the books, but we should have a bit of extra money at this point." Roger feels his hands and shoulders relaxing now. Wonderful. "...But someone ought to run this by John Reid," the older man adds. Roger lets out a sharp huff. "I know you lot have issues with managerial authority, Roger; believe me, I do. But Reid is a far different man than Sheffield, and he really ought to know." He glances sideways at the drummer, whose gaze narrows. He sees the set of the other's shoulders, and recalls the slump in them when Miami initially realised they were being stolen from. That sewer rat of an agent had pulled a fast one on him too, and Roger can tell his words right now are sincere, even as their tone is heavy. He is trusting that Reid will do the right thing for them, hoping, because no one could handle another break like the awful one they had with Trident. 

The drummer's expression softens as he thinks on this. But he knows he will not be able to make the call. "Fine, I see your point. But John ought to call; if Reid is going to be a tosser, Deacy has a way to handle him." Rog doesn't know how John remains kind and calm in any situation when talking (or not talking) to people. And he's got quite the business acumen, even Roger can tell that.

A laugh emanates from out the driver's lips. "I understand your concerns, and I'm sure John will perform admirably." Left hand sliding up onto the centre of the steering wheel, the older man reaches out with his right and pats Roger's shoulder. Rog is surprised and touched. "I'll work the numbers and get in touch with him as well. We have about a week to get this done, yes?"

"Yes," Roger gulps. "Well, ten days." Holy shit. He jerks his chin in a stubborn nod. "We can do it." They have to do it, to help Brian. There's no going back now, the plan's in motion. "...Thank you, Miami."

Miami's eyes crinkle in a smile. No matter how much this takes or how difficult it is, he is genuinely happy to help these big-hearted boys do good for each other. His tone is serious and gentle as he responds "Of course, Roger." Growing businesslike, "Now, do plant your behind in a seat somewhere; we're coming up on the checkpoint and I don't want us stopped for improper handling of this vehicle."

Roger guffaws. "Oh, is THAT what they call it? You saucy man, Miami." 

The accountant shakes his head. Of course Roger would make some sort of raunchy quip out of an honest concern. Typical. With a smile in his voice, he remonstrates "Sit _down_ , Roger."

***

During the latter half of their concert in Toledo, Ohio, John Deacon is flying high.

Of course, he had been down a bit, nervous beforehand as always--because of playing for a crowd, yes, but also because Roger had told him that he had been volunteered to talk to John Reid: "You've got the business mouth, Deacy. I'd get on the phone and start swearing, and the call would go right into something about new costumes if we handed it to Freddie." He said that with his usual charming grin, and John hadn't been able to say no. And he wants to help with this plan of theirs; it is hard to see Brian so melancholy. Even missing his own father, though he has been gone for such a long time now, John does not feel as though his grief is as acute as Brian's. For his parents are not only still alive, but they had been good to him, supportive for his entire life, it seemed--until he began to do this. For John it started as a hobby, but to Bri this is a _job_ , to play music; no--a career--and he's always acted like it. He should be proud of what he has done, and of Queen. John truly believes that.

He, well, with his difficulties the bassist at times has a harder time being proud. But not tonight--he is flying onstage with his boys.

 _"Listen-- Mama I'm gonna be your slave!"_ Fred croons into the microphone and John runs up beside him, leaning into his space to sing. 

The bassist is focused on Freddie and on the mic rather than the crowd, so he can belt it. Freddie believes in him: _"All day long!"_

 _"Mama I'm gonna be your slave,"_ Freddie loves it, he wraps one arm around Deacy and lifts his mic stand to keep the mesh at the proper distance, picking up both of their voices. His heart soars with pride as John's voice does, as the dear man puts everything he has into his performance, hair whipping back and forth as his head bobs in time to Roger's drumbeat.

_"--all day long!"_

_"Gonna love ya til my dying day..."_ swears Freddie. 

His breath is hot against John's cheek and his body crackles with energy like static electricity, filling the stage and the air and crackling across John's skin as he performs with everything he's got: _"All day long, yeah, all day long...."_

Brian goes into a riff with his guitar and Roger beams at John and Fred from behind his drums. Freddie kicks out his leg and whirls round John for the next bit of the song, fingertips trailing across the bassist's back as his energy extends behind him like a contrail, infectious and invigorating them all.

John gulps from a bottle behind his amplifier--one of the roadies had made him a drink before and put a decanter beside his amp for the show, and it's now nearly empty. John pulls back out in front for his bass work after Bri's guitar solo. 

"Yeaahhh, Johnny, get funky!" Freddie yowls as Rog lets out a whoop of excitement, flipping his drumstick and saying something to Freddie that sends both into a fit of laughter. John gulps and plays, head bowed. 

_"Liar, liar, oh get down you liar--never never let you win!"_

Brian's fingers are flying over the strings of his Old Lady as he picks out the notes, letting them thrum beneath the light caress of his fingers along with the ribbed metal edge of his sixpence pick. He glances across the stage as Deaks' first three fingers go into overdrive, and their rhythms sync up perfectly. 

_"I'm gonna love ya til my dying day-- All day long!"_

John's long ringed fingers flash as his bass solo spot arrives, and Freddie thrusts out his chest and legs, flinging back his head as he struts to and fro between the guitarist and bassist. Roger's teeth are gleaming in a grin as expansive as a Chessy cat's as he slams the last drumbeats with both arms, hair flying as he bangs his head.

The crowd roars and Freddie blows them a kiss. "Thank you, darlings! How about our bassist, eh?" He leans into John's side and John smiles and waves, dipping his face awkwardly even as his heart swells the way it always does from Freddie's praise. When the singer calls Bri's name and turns to praise his guitar work, John ducks back.

Roger glances over to see Deacy down the remainder of his first bottle of alcohol as another is brought to him. The lights are now down between 'Liar' and 'Lap of the Gods Revisited'. As the boys power through that song and 'Now I'm Here', with lights flashing and drum fanfare, John spins and stumbles a bit, dancing in front of Roger's drum set in his own little world. Rog keeps a sharp eye out during the remaining three songs in their setlist, leaping up to join and grab hold of John during their bow. John sways but remains upright and carries the rest of his bottle with him to the bar where they subsequently end up.

Brian actually eats at the bar after the concert, which is a welcome surprise to the rest-- Freddie urges John to eat something as well, particularly after Roger murmurs in the singer's ear before going off with a girl. John pushes food around his plate, still too energised--he is practically BUZZING with energy after their show--to eat much. He does drink more, though; the rest of the second bottle (with some help) and a beer, and then a shot that gets handed to him. It goes down smoothly and before he knows it he's had another.

Surroundings are undulating slightly now, or perhaps he is; John feels Brian's long hands on his shoulders, hears Freddie's beautiful voice purr something, and then he is caught up in a coat (and by an arm) that smells of cigarettes and slightly of cologne. Roger. John feels his body heat, too, as he's enveloped by the smell, and hears that high husky voice that has the power to make him tremble; particularly in falsetto--and suddenly John feels a throbbing sensation shooting throughout his body. He stumbles forward and very nearly falls on his face, but Rog's strong hands grip his shoulders to steady him, and those big blue eyes swim before John's as the drummer says "Okay, Johnny. On you get, up you get, c'mon. We're going back ... for a lie-down." There are words spoken, more murmurs that float around John's awareness, as happens when one is submerged beneath water, but only Roger's words make sense as they rumble through John's head, which now rests against the shorter man's chest. "Yeah, I've got him. See you in a bit, Fred. Brian...," And with that John recalls nothing more until he is buffeted by a blast of cool night air. He is being held up by Roger. "John? Hey, stay with me, step with me, mate. There ya go."

John's head is spinning as he shuts his eyes, stretching out a hand, body swaying. "Mm, I thought...you were with... a lady, Roger. Not me."

"Well I was, but I left her to get you back to the hotel, mate." Roger's tone of voice sounds slightly amused. "Boy, you are bloody _plastered._ "

"No, 'm not," John disagrees with words slurring. Roger laughs as the bassist waves his hand before slapping it flat against Roger's chest. His skin is always so warm. "'M just--havin' a good time. Got to, right Roger?" He clutches at the other man now, their legs tangling together as they shuffle along. John lifts his eyes slowly, focusing on Rog's neck and chin, then his mouth and his eyes. "Did you...have a good time?"

Roger strokes John's hair with a fond smile. "Yes, Deacy, I had a great time."

"Even though you're... having t' go home with me? 'Stead of...." John nearly over balances now, but the drummer grabs his waist and hauls him back upright. "I'm sorry," John whimpers. "Y' wanted to be with someone else, probably."

"Oh, Deaks. No, mate. Don't do that. I'm happy to be with you, and Bri and Fred will be heading along too, in a bit."

To Roger's horror, the youngest band member lets out a sob rather than being comforted by that. "No, I--I don't wanna make y' all leave...,"

"Oh for fucks' sake, Deaks, you aren't making anyone leave! I offered to take you back myself! Now hold onto me and shut up."

John wraps both arms around Roger obediently, his eyes shiny. He ignores the second half of his friend's command, however. "Y' mean it, Rog?"

"Yes," Roger sighs heavily at his mate's utter denseness. "I love you, you numpty, and you were pounding that shite during the set so I started watching out. 'S why I told Fred you needed to eat."

John swallows. He feels like his eyes are shooting out beams of thankfulness, but somehow that isn't enough. He stops and then lifts his face to Roger's, mashing his lips against his friend's --he had aimed for Roger's cheek, but miscalculated, not to mention Roger had bent his head in concern when John stopped walking. So the bassist's thin lips press against Roger's full ones, and the drummer lets it happen. He isn't about to let go of John; the man cannot bloody stand on his own. And honestly, Roger has had worse kisses than this from a few women.

John's head wavers back, almost flopping into his chest. He doesn't seem to register what he had just done, and Rog can't decide if he's disappointed or relieved. Or if, and how much, he's gonna tease Johnny with this memory later. And then that cheeky idea disappears as he's holding back John's hair when the other abruptly leans forward and heaves all the contents of his stomach onto the street beside Roger's shoes.

At the sight and proximity of sick, Roger winces, but he holds his dear friend in place until the wrenching sound of John's heaves subsides. John spits and moans piteously, and with that Roger scoops him into his own arms. "Tell me if you're 'bout to throw up again; otherwise just hang on." He begins striding quickly down the avenue towards their hotel. Luckily it is on a main street, not too distant from the bar they had spent time at.

John's hand grasps the edge of Roger's open shirt and his grip tightens as his stomach rolls and he slurs "Rog, 'm gonna--" Roger halts and puts John's feet on the ground, still holding tight to the bassist's side and shoulder as he heaves again, gasping, gut gurgling as the amount of liquor he imbibed, coupled with the lack of sustenance he had eaten, now takes its toll. 

His grey-green gaze finds Roger's with such embarrassment and self-disgust in it, but all the drummer does is stroke John's hair and reassure "We're almost there; just hang on a wee bit longer, mate." 

John looks like shit, but he hangs on until they reach their room. The drummer sits his friend in the bathtub as John hurls yet again, his eyes bleary. Rog rubs his back and then deftly, clinically, removes the bassist's clothes before turning on the cold water and crouching beside him, one hand cupping John's nearest shoulder to keep him upright. Don't want him to pass out and fall into the ruddy drink--there has been more than enough of that going on tonight, clearly. 

The skin of John's forehead is clammy, Rog notices as he wets a washcloth and wipes his friend's face and neck, still holding onto him. He hears the sound of the door and then of Freddie's voice calling to them. "In here, in the loo!" Roger returns, relief suffusing his tone as Freddie's enormous brown eyes peer around the edge of the bathroom door in concern.

"Oh Deacy, darling...,"

"--I'll get one of the beds ready for him," offers Brian softly as his curly head looms over and behind Freddie. "Turn down the sheets and all."

"Might want to put a bin on the floor next to the pillow," suggests Roger with great presence of mind.

"...And get water, buckets of it," adds Freddie.

"Need to keep him on his side when he sleeps, too." Brian nods and withdraws to do those things as Freddie enters the room, hanging up his outer coat and taking Roger's, as the drummer hadn't bothered with anything but taking care of Deacy. 

"Just look at you taking charge," Freddie beams gently down at Roger, though the depths of his eyes still hold concern for John. "I'm proud of you, Blondie."

"Yeah, well." Roger shrugs. "I know about drinking. Also alcohol poisoning and aspiration. Speaking of, we really need to start getting some water in him if he can keep it down."

As if on cue, John heaves again. His shoulders are shaking. Nothing is coming up now but bile; and there isn't even much of that. Freddie clucks like a mother, smoothing John's messy hair and stroking his pallid cheek. "--How much did he drink tonight, Roger?"

"Well, I dunno at the bar, because of... other things, but he had a drink and then an entire bottle onstage." Freddie sucks in a breath and Rog clenches one fist. "Fuck me, I should've stopped him before he started in on that second bottle. Or at the very least slowed him down. But he was having so much fun--!" Roger recalls John's gentle eyes, that bright expression when he drunkenly asked in earnest whether or not Roger was having a good time; and he thinks about the touch of John's lips, that sweet gratitude and unguarded fondness, even unintentionally exhibited the way it had been. 

Freddie has come up next to Roger to assist John, whose whole body is now shivering in earnest. "Let's get you dried off and tucked in bed, darling." Even in his current state John hears Freddie and nods, lifting his arms as the singer pulls him into a standing position. Roger hands over a towel before shutting off the bathwater and letting it drain.

John leans into Freddie as the singer rubs him dry and Roger pokes his head out the door, calling softly, "Find a pair of pants for John, wouldja Bri?" There is a grunt and then some shuffling so "Hurry up!" The drummer adds sharply. A pair of soft trousers hits Roger in the face as he sticks himself farther out of the doorway. 

"Got the fuckin' pants!" Brian snaps back, every inch of his body taut with worry.

"Cheers," Roger replies as he clutches the cloth to his chest and turns, understanding Bri's state of mind completely. He bends and holds out the pants for John to step into as Freddie continues to keep him upright. "Here, mate, step for me. There ya go." John wavers like a newborn colt, hair falling into and obscuring his features as he steps into the garment. Freddie has an arm wrapped round his shoulders and Roger steadies his legs, and then both rise and help him out of the washroom and into the nearer bed. Brian is standing by; well, hovering, more like, his hazel-brown eyes worried and grave. He has filled up a water glass and gotten ice chips from a machine down the hall, and hands said cup to Deacy now after Freddie helps the bassist into bed. Bri's fingers tremble on top of John's as he reaches out with his other hand and strokes John's hair, briefly cupping his face; worried at how abnormally pale and shaky the younger man appears. He should have watched over him better tonight--he promised John that he would always be here for him, damn it.

Roger appears woebegone as well as his eyes, their expression far dimmer than usual, catch Brian's. Only Freddie exudes careful calmness and gentle grace alone, without any self-hatred happening as he smooths John's blankets over top of the bassist's legs before plumping up his pillows for him. John has drunk down most of the water in his glass and now falls back onto the bed, curling up under the sheets. Roger instantly leaps onto the bed beside him, rolling John onto his side and pulling Deacy's back flush against his own chest to ensure he remains that way. Brian refills John's glass with water before placing it on the nightstand beside him and shifting the empty bin a trifle closer to the side of the bed, just in case. The guitarist caresses John's cheek briefly, wishing only to stay and watch over him all night, but he thinks of the expulsions in the bathroom. "... I'll go clean out the tub, then," he offers quietly.

Oh, Bri. "I'll help you," Freddie murmurs. Looking down at Roger, who has lifted his face to study Deacy's features and to lock his gaze on him, the frontman adds "Do let us know if you or Deaks need anything, Rog."

"Yeah, alright, thanks." Roger grunts, eyes flickering up to theirs before snapping back to John as the bassist coughs, shoulders jerking. Roger pats him on the back as the coughs subside. He hears Brian and Fred speaking to one another as they retreat into the bathroom, leaving Deaks' chilled shivering body next to Roger's warm one. The drummer has never felt more grateful that he runs warm than at this precise moment as John huddles close beside him and falls deeply asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor John. I've heard he drank onstage some, possibly quite a bit, and I'm sure at least once in all the excitement he got a tad too drunk and needed to be taken care of. Thus this was born. He's gonna be all right, though--Roger's got him :)
> 
> As always I love comments <3


	10. Ain't No Big Deal...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bickering, catching up on sobriety, and making a few phone calls. Roger has an idea to get Brian out of the hotel and hopefully the pits.

It is far closer to --well, past, actually-- noon the following day when John Deacon becomes aware of his surroundings again.

The last thing he recalls clearly from the night before was being assisted, well, more like carried from the pub by Roger. There are only bits and pieces of wakefulness and memories in his brain from after, along with a raging feeling as if his entire body is trying to rid itself of him. What little he does recall makes him feel a deep sense of embarrassment and shame that abates only slightly when he shifts and opens his eyes to find Rog grinning down at him with utter relief and adoration in his own. "Morning John," he says, and then with a breathy laugh of relief, the drummer adds "Man, it's good to see your eyes looking clear again."

"Eugh," John groans, lifting a hand to scrub across his face. His mouth is so unbelievably dry and he can tell his breath is terrible, so he covers his lips to try and spare Roger from the smell. "What _happened_ to me yesterday?"

Roger's shoulders shake in relieved mirth as he takes John's hand in his and presses his lips to it. Honestly he is just happy as hell to have his friend back to himself. He won't admit how honestly concerned--no, more than concerned; fucking _frightened_ \--he had been for John last night. "You were absolutely, utterly pissed, mate. Honestly I don't think that word rightly describes it. You were--"

"--You were fucking blitzed, my darling!" Freddie speaks cheerfully, and John winces at the volume of his words. The singer appears and flings himself on top of John's legs, reaching out to take hold of Roger. "But our dear Liz here assisted you admirably. Never have I seen such dedication from this man, apart from his drumming. Well, even more than that, honestly." Freddie's eyes twinkle.

"Oh, sod off," Roger grumbles, cheeks flushing at Freddie's praise. And probably because he called him Liz. John chuckles. "I'm not gonna just let John heave out his life and not help him when I went to medical school."

"Ahhh, yes, medical school." Freddie winks and taps his finger against his nose. "That's it, of course."

Roger sits upright and grabs a pillow from behind his head, whacking Freddie in the shoulder. "I said sod off, it's nothing."

"...Not to me," John murmurs, leaning against Roger's side. "I don't remember all that much, Roger, but thank you."

Roger's adams apple bobs as he swallows and looks into John's face. His expression softens at the sincerity of the bassist's words and the appreciation suffusing all of his features and he replies "Well, you're welcome, mate, of course. I was happy to help."

As they look at each other and Roger wonders if he ought to say something else, a pillow is flung and catches him across the face, accompanied by a shriek of delight from Freddie. "Ohh there, I got you back, Roger!"

The drummer's eyes narrow. "Oh you are going DOWN, Freddie Mercury." He glances at John with a grin. John giggles a bit, moving back unobtrusively to get out of the way as Roger lunges on top of Freddie and begins smacking him with his pillow repeatedly.

John dissolves into a gale of giggles as he hears an opening door and then Brian's voice exclaiming in irritated exasperation "What in the bloody hell is going on? You ought to be more considerate of John--!" he stops with eyes wide as he sees John sitting with his back against the headboard, smiling slightly though he feels a trifle ill. He's happy to feel this way and yet to be awake and alert, however.

"Hullo, Brian," the bassist says with a wave, automatically preparing to apologise. "About last night, I'm sorry--" he begins, seeing Bri's face grow blank and firm, and then suddenly the guitarist's lanky legs are propelling him across the room and his arms extend to grab and squeeze the daylights out of John in a hug. 

Brian's body is trembling as he clutches the other close and he murmurs "No, Johnny, I'M sorry. I didn't honour my promise to be there for you." He chokes a bit, clutching John in his arms even tighter, fingers splayed across the bassist's upper back. _It's a damn good thing that Rogie was._ "Thank goodness you're all right."

John hugs Brian back without a word, hoping the embrace is enough to telegraph his thanks and assurance that Brian hadn't done anything wrong, what happened last night was John's own fault and no one else's. Freddie, after flinging himself off the bed and away from Roger's onslaught of pillow bashing, says "Oh, don't be so dramatic, darling--of course he'd've been all right."

Brian's muscles tense up and he turns his head to stare at Fred. "You can't've KNOWN that," the guitarist snapped. "Especially not--" _after what I told you about losing any of you, Freddie. I wasn't lying. I can't lose you. I can't even bear the thought._ Freddie's face softens with understanding even as John's forehead crinkles in slight confusion, as well as surprise, at Brian's vehemence. Roger just seems poised to fling a pillow again. Trying to keep things light instead of bringing the mood down, Brian continues "--well, especially not since _Roger_ was the one looking after him."

"Oi!" Roger's tone is affronted. "I'm right here, Bri. I can hear you."

Brian shoots a little grin at him. "Yes, I know."

Silence and then the guitarist receives a pillow to the side of his head, launched at him with all of Roger's energy.

***

John is plied with a heaping meal before they get back on the bus again and head to their next gig. He tucks into the food as best he can. The others continue to ply him with water, and they stop off for over-the-counter headache medicine (due to the fact that their next drive is four hours long, and "you'll have a bit of time to recover using that, darling," Freddie tells John). Roger is the one who goes into the corner pharmacy, citing his own experiences with hangovers, but Brian groans and follows as it becomes apparent that the drummer is taking a bit too long to get pills and pay.

Sure enough, he is chatting to the pretty pharmacy tech running the register and has to be forcibly pulled away. "Sorry," Brian calls over his shoulder apologetically as he steers Roger out, picking up the medication; lucky for him, he'd already payed for it. "--I would say that he'll call you, but he's not really that sort."

Roger gasps in outrage and shoves Brian away the second they exit the pharmacy. "What was THAT for, Bri? Now she thinks I'm a--!"

"Player?" Brian lifts his eyebrows with an exasperated expression on his face. "Rogie, I did it because we're on a schedule without time for every stop you try to make and every girl you want to sleep with. We have to give these pills to John before we get on, mate! Or have you forgotten what happened last night?"

The blond glowers. He hates when Brian gets like this, sounding superior because he thinks that he's the only person who knows anything. Well Roger also has a brain. "Oh, just because _you're_ not blowing up anybody's skirt, you want to ruin my fun, eh?" Narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses, Rog snarls "Because you can't handle it. And for the bloody record, I remember EXACTLY what happened last night. I was the one who fucking dealt with it and thought I might need to keep our mate from aspirating due to alcohol poisoning, so you can shut your fucking mouth, Brian!" He snatches the bag of medicine out of the guitarist's now-slack hand and slams through the front door of the bus, stomping up its steps and heading straight for John's seat. "We're here now, let's get _on_ already," the drummer snaps at Miami as he passes the driver by.

Jim Beach nods with eyebrows climbing just a bit higher up his craggy forehead, wrinkles becoming a tad more pronounced, but he is not truly shocked by Roger's vitriol, only that it has taken until now, after four in the afternoon, to manifest itself. He looks softly at Brian whose own features are downcast as he enters the bus after Rog and leans heavily on a seat. "Strap up, lads," he jokes as he turns on the engine and backs out of the parking lot to head for the highway. "Oh Canada, here we come again!"

There is an incredibly loud groan from the latter section of the vehicle as he voices that. "We have to go through another mother fucking checkpoint? Fuck!"

They make it through the checkpoint without incident, unless Roger glowering round like a sullen teenager is considered an incident; but the others are used to his expression(s) and talk to the border patrol so it is not a problem. Well, it is Freddie and John who speak more this time-- Brian has gone into one of his broods and sits away from the others at the front of the bus, lean features looking all stoic (at least according to his own estimation. To the others he simply appears pitiful). 

John's hangover is slowly lessening on the drive. He wonders if it is in part because Freddie gave him one of the unused jabs he got back in Michigan, and that B12 is kicking in to help metabolise the heaping meal he'd been exhorted to eat before they left. Whatever the case, he is taking slow sips of water and talking to Roger, who is less apt to giggle than normal, and finally John asks him about it. Well, interrogates him, more like. "There's something up between you and Brian," the bassist states in a blunt but gentle way as he leans over the back of Rog's seat to look at him. "What is it? Do tell me, c'mon."

Roger lets out a windy sigh and clenches his teeth. Bloody Brian and his fucking worries that eclipse everyone and everything else. "He's a git," the drummer snaps, turning away from John's sweetly curious eyes. "...acts like he's the ONLY bloody one who gets worried, who was scared for you--" Roger gulps now and whirls back so swiftly to look at John that Deaks nearly tumbles backwards in surprise. He might have done if the other didn't grab onto his hands. "I'm not trying to say this to fucking send you into a spiral, but you scared the shit out of me last night, John." Roger's hands tremble as his high voice cracks, blue eyes searching Deacy's face. "I'm glad you're alright." His blue gaze travels over John's features and much softer he asks "Was ...didja drink that much for a particular reason, mate?"

John blinks. He sometimes forgets how perceptive Roger can be. Damn. Sometimes it can be easy to forget that Roger is clever; his quick mind is hidden behind that childish exuberance and his flashy personality. Yet how astute Roger is, and John can readily believe that Brian doesn't consider it, which would irk the drummer to no end. "I...yeah, a bit," John admits slowly. He doesn't want the lads to worry too much or think any of his escapades are, or can be put on them, so he is glad that he has been asked this question by Roger in particular because the drummer is the least likely to get broody or mother-hennish about it. "I mean, there was," John swallows and shifts, climbing over the top of Rog's seat to plop down beside him. Roger's eyebrows creep up. This must be serious. Lowering his voice, John adds "When you told me part of our Garden plan was to talk to our manager, I may have...er, panicked. A bit." He chuckles at his own wit and Rog lets out a breath of amusement, yet his eyes never leave John's. "It just--it felt like a lot of responsibility to tell him what we're thinking, and I don't want to screw it up and let you down." John sighs and slumps a bit, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He really ought to get better at this, at talking things out. Roger is a whiz at it.

Oh, Deaks. Roger swallows and feels as if his heart could burst with affection. Before he thinks about it, he's moving in and giving John a quick peck on the lips before wrapping him in a hug. John blinks in surprise and his face wrinkles a bit at that, but only in confusion as he relaxes into Roger's embrace. The drummer's strong arms encircle him with safety. "You couldn't let us down, Deacy, mate," Rog's high voice now murmurs in his ear and against his hair. "Honestly, you couldn't. I'm sorry, I didn't think--" he can hear Brian's scoff in his head: _of course you didn't, Roger; you never do._ Shakes his head to clear it. "--I didn't think of it being overwhelming for ya, I'm sorry. I know you'll be brilliant talking to Reid, but if you don't want to do it or can't, whatever, that's totally fine, mate. I completely understand."

Those unassuming gentle eyes of John's, enormous pools of quiet surprise, gaze into Roger's as the drummer moves back and touches their foreheads together. "...Do you really?" Deacy asks.

Roger swallows and nods, fluffy pieces of hair bouncing across his forehead and against his cheeks as his body lurches a bit with the movement of the bus. John's steady strong fingers automatically brace against Roger's side as the vehicle rounds a sharp turn. Rog relaxes into John, wanting to assure him "Yeah, 'course. You don't have to be chatty, John. I just know that you've got the whole... business acumen thing." He shakes his tresses back and lifts his hand. "But hey, you can feed me words over the line, bet I'd do alright."

The image of Roger parroting some sort of --whatever acumen he thinks John has-- makes the bassist shake with silent laughter. His dear friend's belief does wonders for him, however. "Thanks for the offer, Rog, but I think I'll be able to do it." He leans against the drummer's side, Roger automatically shifting his body to accommodate him, legs stretching forward to allow John room to curl against him. "And I am sorry for worrying you," he murmurs. "I don't...I never want to do that."

Roger rests the side of his head against the crown of John's, arm around his shoulders and one hand rubbing up and down Deaks' opposite forearm. "'S okay, buddy. I get it, really, I do." He shifts his face down to look at John directly. "Just stay by me next gig, yeah? And if ya get overwhelmed again, for any reason, just look back at me, mate. Right over the drumset. I've got your back, you know that."

A sunny smile breaks across John's open face and he nuzzles against Roger in thanks. "I appreciate that so much, Rog. And--I will. I promise." 

Roger breathes out and jerks his chin down in a sharp nod. "Good." He lifts his gaze to glower up at Brian's hunched back in the seat way ahead of theirs. "Wish Bri could get it though his thick skull that I'm not a bloody moron and I've got his back too."

***

The evening after their Toronto show, Freddie and John end up heading to the hotel room rather early--ostensibly because John is still recovering from his escapades of two evenings prior, and Freddie is watching out for and taking care of him, but in actuality they are going to conduct a phone call with John Reid and then another with Brian's parents. Hopefully the latter will be picked up. 

Fred had told Roger to keep Brian out of the room: "Take him to supper or a museum or something, darling. I'm certain there is SOMETHING Canadians get up to that will interest our Bri." And then with a severe tone and intent gaze, likely either because he heard something from John or just because he's Freddie, the lead singer adds "...And do figure out your fucking hang-ups, please, Roger love. I refuse to let either of you back into this room if you are still fighting upon your return. And Miami will certainly not be amused to have to purchase more rooms due to your ridiculous stubborn notions!"

"They aren't notions," Roger says, but there is no arguing with Fred when he gets like this. It is his motherly mode; he can be a bulldozer when it comes to getting his boys to make up with each other after a row. Whether it is ridiculous or not. "...but alright, fine, Fred. I hear you." Brian walks into the room a second later and halts in place, his eyes flickering back and forth between Rog and Fred, seeing John's squinty gaze in the background. Roger flounces and sighs and grabs onto the guitarist's arm, tugging him back out the door. "C'mon, Brian--you and I are leaving."

"What--" Brian's eyes crinkle and his brows draw together as he forgets to wear that wounded brooding expression of his and lets Roger tug him out the door. He glances back at Fred who blows them both a kiss, and John who mouths _'be nice',_ whatever that means. But the instant Roger tells him what they are leaving the room to _do,_ Brian nearly throws him off and scarpers back to the hotel. "You want to go see a HOCKEY game?? Are you serious, Roger, or have you lost what there still is of your mind?"

Ouch. Well, alright, fuck you too. "Yes I'm serious, Brian!" Roger retorts loudly. "I got tickets. It's the, er Red Wings versus the Maple Leafs--hellish names, honestly. Who is going to be intimidated by a fucking plant?"

Brian looks at the bits of paper Roger had produced. "... More like who'd be intimidated by their atrocious spelling," he mutters as he squints at the lettering. Spelling leaves with an 'f'. Honestly. "...No one."

Roger barks out a laugh and shrugs. "Well, it's a bit of local colour, and I'm tired of sitting in a bar or the fucking bus or our hotel, aren't you? I wanted to do something!" He wiggles his eyebrows enticingly then. Or attempts to. "C'mon, Bri, I'll buy ya a souvenir. Maybe they have books on hockey or something at the arena."

Brian sighs. "... I'll pass," he says. "Though if you want to get us both a beer instead, that's alright."

Roger's face brightens and he lets out a legitimate chuckle this time. "Now that's the spirit! And what I call a helluva compromise. C'mon, mate."

When they reach the arena, Roger DOES buy Brian a Red Wings jersey because "it works with your pasty skin and black hair". Bri tells Rog to fuck off and makes him get a Maple Leafs jersey in retaliation, but the blue of course makes Roger's eyes pop and the lady usher showing them to their seats gets all flustered. Of course. They are at the corner of the ice, a little above the glass, and Roger's instantly pissed off because he thought they were supposed to get good seats and that the best ones were behind the glass. But he also does not know a single blooming thing about hockey.

"Look, we can see the whole--court, ice, rink, whatever," Brian tells him, sweeping his curls back as he grips the cup of beer he had purchased before they sat. "So calm down, Rog."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" But the drummer is mollified once he actually sits down and realises "Oh. We can see pretty well from here." Of course the players skating by are a bit blurred round the edges for him, and he really can't find the bloody puck (what the fuck kind of name is that anyway? Why not just call it a hockey ball?) But Roger is not about to admit a disadvantage due to being nearsighted. He can handle it.

Despite Brian's vehemence in denouncing Roger's decision to go to this game, he is leaning forward and watching the action intently, eyes flickering across the ice, doing his best to pick up the rules. He figures out face-offs and icing pretty quickly, and finds himself grinning over at Roger when one hockey player slams another into the wall. The boards. Rog whoops and yells "Ohhh yeah, motherfucker, _get_ him! Kick his arse!" 

Despite losing sight of the puck--or not ever gaining it, really--Roger is incredibly into physical gameplay. He slides his feet and jerks in response to hits, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth. He feels a sense of release every time there is a solid hit and the resulting _oooooh!_ from practically everyone in the crowd gets the drummer's blood up, and he yells back "Yeah, ooh, damn right!" He glances at Brian beside him, wondering if his mate is enjoying himself, how he's feeling. 

At one particular glance, Brian's hands are linked in front of his lips and his elbows rest upon his knees after a call. His black curls swing as his head turns and he smiles sweetly. Right hand unlacing from his left and reaching down, he pats Roger's left knee, leaving his palm in place there. Roger swallows and meets his friend's eyes, and he feels ashamed for being so pissed at him, for taking the mick even in his own mind. He licks his lips and opens his mouth to apologise "Brian--"

Bri squeezes his knee and responds "I know, Rogie. I'm sorry too." And then he glances onto the ice to see a Leafs player gunning for the goal, and lets out a whoop that startles Roger. "Roger, look--!" Roger whips his head round in time to see the shot and hear the blaring buzzer as the crowd goes wild. "AND HE SCORES!!!" the announcer roars. Brian is up, yanking Roger to his feet; jersey he's wearing be damned, this is fucking GREAT-- In euphoria from the buzz of beer and the roaring crowd and yes, being here with his best friend (even when Roger irks the hell out of him), Brian takes Rog in his arms and practically spins him around with excitement.

Roger feels like he's flying, and his fingers dig into Brian's arms as he presses his head to his tall friend's chest, letting out his own series of ecstatic shouts that continue what seems like mere moments later as the same player scores again. And again, and yet again. The crowd is going absolutely ballistic now, and Red Wings players are being booed and told to get off the ice, Turnbull's got their numbers. He scores _FIVE_ goals, and even to Brian and Roger with their inexperienced eyes, that seems like a lot in a single game, particularly for one person. Ian Turnbull.

"Buy that man a fucking drink!" Roger calls out, his husky screech even rougher than usual after yelling himself hoarse.

Brian chuckles even as he wonders whether or not Rog is going to have his voice back in time for their next show. "...I feel like he will have no shortage of drinks tonight, mate," he says as they exit the stadium after the game, his arm slung round Roger's shoulders. "Goodness, but the Red Wings got hacked."

"Hacked, sacked, murdered, pounded int' the ground," Roger chants, weaving a bit. Bri's heavy grip steadies him, as he had continued buying beers after each of the goals. Brian had helped with the first and joined on the second, but then it was Roger drinking alone as Bri got totally engrossed in the game. Rog had been engrossed too, but hell, all of those goals were even MORE fun with drinking!

They make it back along the avenue outside of the hockey arena and begin the trek back toward their hotel, Brian gripping Roger's shirt tightly a couple of times when some raucous fans begin shouting at the pair of them walking out together and Rog takes issue with their comments. "C'mon, Rog, don't," Brian pleads. "Let's just go, we ought to get back..."

"First intelligent thing a Dead Thing's said all night," one of the hecklers sneered. "Ya really oughtn't be hanging aboot with that sort, could catch... _something_." Brian stiffens. He has no idea what they are talking about, other than Dead Thing rhyming with Red Wing, but the insinuation of catching --whatever clearly is not good. Brian's hand rests on Roger's lower back in an attempt to soothe him, but the shorter man's face has contorted in rage. Nobody talks like that to Brian. Nobody. Not in the least because he might start to believe their absolute crap. Bri's that kind of person, which upsets Roger to no end.

Snarling, Rog jumps at the person who'd spoken, roaring "Don't you fucking say that about him, this man's mind could run circles around us all!" And he strikes the man in the face, someone far and away larger than him, of course--tackling him to the ground. Instantly a brawl begins with more people running over and shouting after. 

Brian closes his eyes and steels himself. "ROGER!!" He dives into the fray with his arms extended to scoop his friend up, waiting for an opening before dipping down and wrapping his arms round Rog's waist. The drummer flails, arms, legs, and hair flying.

"Geroff, Brian, I HAD him!"

"Well now I've got you!" The guitarist retorted, and then some flashing lights from belts, lapels, and flashlights of security personnel are moving swiftly in their direction.

"Alright, sots, break it up, eh?" A guard calls. "Who started this?" They begin talking to some people and ushering others away.

Roger, his eyes still flashing with fury, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, opened in a smear of space as he breathes heavily. Brian's arms remain cinched snugly around his friend's midriff and his curls tickle Rog's forehead. "...Are you okay to be let go?" The taller man whispers, bending himself over to shield Roger from the sight of the authorities; and to check on the physical state of his face and extremities.

Roger sighs, and then as Brian shakes him hard, worry and ire evident in movement alone, he responds "Yes, yes, fine--I won't go after anybody else, Brian."

The guitarist's grip relaxes and he sets Roger down. Rog stumbles forward as Bri's hands go to his shoulders, spinning him around before cupping both of his round cheeks, flushed from his exertions. Bri tilts Roger's head up and to the side, checking for blood. Roger closes his eyes and lets Bri do it, one hand rising to wrap around Brian's right wrist and hold it tight, thumb stroking the smooth skin in an attempt to calm Brian, as he is breathing heavily with palpable, anxious concern.

And then a member of security steps up behind Roger and Brian straightens up, grip tightening and then dropping from his friend's face. Roger turns to face the guard as well, rubbing a hand across his lips and chin again before swallowing. "I hear there was a bit of an altercation that started with the two of you?" 

Brian and Roger glance at each other. And then, "Yes, sir," intones Brian. "It was on account of--"

"--Me," Roger put in, as he had noticed Brian automatically curling his hand inward, pointing at himself. "Some bast...er, person had a problem with the fact that my mate here's wearing a Red Wings jersey, but I--"

"But you don't need any more problems after the outcome of tonight's game," the security officer says. "So I'd advise the two'a you to head out and keep your heads down as best you can."

Brian blinks, confused by the kindness. He is prepared to open his mouth and will probably end up getting them detained by doing it, so Roger puts a hand on his arm and "Cheers," the blond says to the guard, who nods.

"By the way," he adds as Brian and Roger begin walking again "...I dig your music. That angry song on your fourth album's a bit how I feel about my boss." He lifts a hand to them and nods. "Have a good night," he tells them before moving on down the avenue. Brian shoots a bewildered sort of smile after as Roger laughs in unabashed delight.

"Well that was unexpected. How d'ya think Freddie and John's night went?" Roger asks, inwardly hoping they both had gotten their phone calls in and there will be good news.

Brian chuckles. "Well I hope THEY didn't get into any fights."

"Hey!" Roger scoffs in annoyance, but his eyes dance. "I was fightin' in order to protect you, ya numpty." 

Bri rolls his eyes with exasperated fondness and then he stops on the side of the path they are walking. Roger tips his head back in confusion and concern. "Brian...?"

But Brian says nothing; his throat bobs heavily as he breathes out, pulling Roger in and crushing his friend against his lean chest in a secure embrace, face burying itself into Roger's forest of soft blond locks. "...Thank you, Rog," he mumbles. "You act like a fucking idiot sometimes, but you aren't. You're amazing, and I'm an arse."

Rog wraps his arms around Brian's middle and lifts his hands, splaying out his fingers to press against and clutch his friend's shoulders. "Yeah, I know; and you are, but don't go on about it, wouldja mate? It's alright, I promise."

"No," Brian once more swallows hard. "--It's not."

Roger sighed. Brian is such a -- "Right, well, I love you anyway. Now, can we get back, please? Otherwise Freddie is going to call the local militia or something to come after us. You know how he is."

Brian sniffs and releases Rog, swiping at his curls and then at the side of his face. He flashes a brittle smile. "Okay, yeah." They turn and walk in step together. "Roger," Brian tilts his head down and touches the other man's arm. 

Rog looks up at him, neither slowing down. "Yeah, Brian?"

His tone choked and eyes watery, "I love you too," whispers Bri. Roger intends to tease him for saying that, to ask how much it hurt to voice, but Brian has been through enough tonight already.

Briefly leaning his head against his friend, Roger grins. "Thanks. Good." And then, because he's Roger, he adds: "You'd better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The hockey game I have Rog and Brian attending is one that actually occurred between the Detroit Red Wings and the Toronto Maple Leafs on 2 February, 1977. Ian Turnbull was a monster during that game (and Detroit did NOT play well).
> 
> Hockey makes everything better because you can get your aggressive feelings out vicariously--that's something I have discovered in my own experience, at least :P
> 
> Comments welcome <3


	11. ...This Must Be My Destination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More life and shows on the road, including tough times with border patrol, some haircut shenanigans, and a performance in Springfield. Next chapter is in the Garden!

Roger wakes to feel a heavy softness that slightly tickles the sensitive skin of his chest, and Brian opens his eyes to find his cheek resting against a warm fleshy pillow that turns out to be part of Rog's soft stomach and one of his pectorals. The drummer stretches out his legs underneath Bri's long body, which he had curled up against his friend's side, arms and legs akimbo in the mound of bedclothes that surround them both. Along with their just-bought hockey jerseys that neither one knows if they will ever wear again. 

"Morning, Bri," Roger utters with a groan as the light of day pierces his gaze like some sort of rusty spike. His face hurts and he realises that down his left side extends a blotchy bruise, which he has no immediate memory of procuring. He shifts one muscular shoulder and rubs a hand across his face, trying to pat down his long hair, which is in tangles. 

"Morning, Roger," Brian's voice returns evenly as he twists himself round to face his friend. Roger bites down on his lip to stop an involuntary cry as those black curls brush against his tender skin at Bri's movement. It honestly feels amazingly good, but the drummer isn't sure how the guitarist would feel or react if he mentioned that to him. He does recall that they had both apologised last night for their bitchiness, so they should be alright. Now all Roger has to do is figure out what he'd done to receive this giant bruise.... He grunts and raises his face, pieces of light hair falling into his eyes, and as he shakes his head to cast them away, to Brian he looks like some incredibly young child--which he still is, but somehow Brian forgets the difference in their ages as Rog is also so very worldly. He almost chuckles as his eyes catch his friend's blue gaze, which already appears disgruntled even though he'd only just woken up moments ago. Typical. "How're you feeling today?" Brian inquires.

Rog grunts in a noncommittal manner and his mouth twists in a grimace as his body moves, golden light from the hotel room's window trailing down the curve of his side from shoulder to hip. He shines, practically glowing gold like a ruddy --much smaller version of the-- sun, and Brian is almost irritated at how easily his breath is caught and taken away at the sight of Roger's beauty. His skin is so soft and when his movements are languid like this, when he's almost silent, it's a rare occurrence that ought to be celebrated as a miracle, Brian thinks. And then he notices the dark spots, the blotchy blemishes around Rog's ribs, and he sucks in a breath of horrified shock, pale fingers moving of their own accord to assess the damage, ghosting across Roger's side as he asks if it hurts. 

Rog rolls his eyes. "Well. Now that I've fucking moved it isn't exactly a picnic, Brian." He tries to keep his voice as low as he can, having not yet seen any wakeful movement from either John or Freddie. "...What happened?"

"Well you got into a tackle-match with some enormous bloke" is the answer "...because he said something you took issue with."

"Ah," Roger's eyes clear. Now he remembers. "He talked some shite about you, didn't he?"

Brian's fingers still as they are cupped against Roger's skin, and the coolness of them is absurdly comforting against the heat of his throbbing bruise. "... Nothing worth getting into a fight about," the guitarist speaks quietly, midnight curls shadowing and obscuring his face as he dips his head away from Roger's, shoulders tense with worry and that damn shame-- that Roger had done this for him, because of him, and had gotten himself hurt over it. 

Roger feels his teeth clench; he cannot stand when Brian mentally beats himself up this way. With a grunt of pain that turns into a whimper, Rog levers himself up and rolls to catch Brian's chin in his hand, lifting his face to look into the other's. His bare arm curls around Brian's shoulder and side as his calloused fingers grasp and hold him tightly in place. "Brian Harold May, you can fuck right off with that," he growls, his tone of voice razor-sharp. "I will get into as many fights as it takes to prove to you that you're fucking worth something. You don't deserve to get treated like shite, Brian. Nobody does. Unless they're complete and utter arseholes, which you are not."

A flicker passes through Bri's eyes. Almost amused, even as he's still exhibiting that sorrowful mental anguish. "I'm not?"

"No!" Roger snaps. "Not even when you piss me the fuck off, you're not. How can I get it through your thick head--" he chokes on the words a bit, stroking Bri's cheek with his thumb in a manner surprisingly gentle for Roger "--what you're worth to me, to so many, Brian? Jesus, you're fucking dense." In a blink, the blond man leans in and presses his lips against Brian's forehead, pushing his hair out of the way, and Brian trembles violently at the touch, aching to feel it. Dear Rog moves his hand from its spot holding Brian's chin and wraps it round to thread through his hair instead, brushing out those curls with his nimble fingers. His warmth envelopes Bri like a security blanket and Brian closes his eyes. He may not believe Roger's words in regards to others or himself, but he knows that with all of his friend's boisterous, loyal, fiercely protective fiery being, Roger means them. And he's indescribably thankful for that.

"...Shall we depart the room for a bit, John?" Inquires Freddie's amused voice from the other bed after a long moment--perhaps more than one, Brian isn't entirely sure--over Roger's shoulder. 

John's head pops up to rest itself alongside Freddie's. He is smiling as Fred automatically wraps one arm around his waist. "I dunno," the bassist shrugs. "They do seem to be getting rather cosy over there."

Brian smiles at their teasing words, olive cheeks flushing slightly, and Roger turns with one arm still looped round his shoulders, hand stroking Bri's hair, and flashes an obscene gesture at the other two. "We ARE cosy, as a matter of fact; now fuck off."

Freddie's loud laughter peals like a bell as John's entire face lights up in mirth. "Well I should think your outing of last night was successful, then."

"Definitely looks that way," giggles John.

Sharing a glance with Roger and rising a bit to put his own arm around his smaller friend, Brian nods serenely at them both. "Indeed, it certainly was."

***

The band gets stopped by American border patrol as they return from Toronto this time, and despite showing all of the same papers as before and saying they'd been up there to do a concert, their bus is combed over extensively and all are forced to wait outside.

"What the fuck are they looking for??" Roger, of course, is fuming. It doesn't help that any movement that torques his side causes him pain; he'd obviously sustained pretty deep bruising after the hockey game. "Maybe I should tell them I kicked some Canadian's arse, but if they're expecting a body, I didn't hurt him THAT badly!"

"...And we are back to contemplating murder," John speaks up quietly. Freddie chortles.

Brian rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. "Yes, I'm certain that is going to make them halt their search, Rog. They'd probably pick you up for assault or something."

Roger flicks his fingers and clenches his jaw, eyes burning with intense irritation. "This is bullshit," he snaps. "--And there's no bloody need to be sarcastic, Brian."

"What else can we do?" The tallest member looks over as an audible many-throated exclamation of horror from the roadies precedes a stampede over to one of the members of the border patrol as he unceremoniously tips one of the boxes of microphones and speakers out of its compartment. Brian winces at that, and his hand instantly goes to the case of his Old Lady, which he had slung safely across his back as he'd exited. 

Roger's expression grows honestly, legitimately murderous. "If they fuck up my drumset, I don't care if I'm caught for it, they'll be dead on the road."

He is so tense that Brian does feel sorry for him--he couldn't have grabbed his drumset to keep it close to him the way Bri brought his guitar. The guitarist's face softens and he lowers his arms, adding "It'll be alright, Rogie." 

John nods and Freddie moves over to rub the tension out of Roger's shoulders. "And if you are going to kill them, we'd all end up going on the run with you."

Roger cocks his head at that and then lets out a sound of appreciation as Freddie's strong fingers find deep-seated knots. "Ohhh that's it, Fred, harder. Yes!" Brian covers his face and John snorts as Freddie beams and does as he is bid, massaging Roger til he is weak in the knees. Then a guard marches up to them, his face set and disapproving. Brian nudges Fred's side with a bony elbow as he'd begun leaning down over Rog in a rather compromising position. The singer straightens up, loosening his fingers and resting them lightly upon his friend's far less tense shoulders. He beams at the guard who blinks once before he speaks.

"You can go on now, nothing suspect was found in your vehicle. However, it is not advisable to cross the border for such a short while; anything could happen. You might want to keep that in mind for the future."

"Thank you for letting us know, Officer," is the harried response from Brian as John nods to him and Freddie smiles again as they all begin steering Roger away.

The drummer snorts, eyes sharp and incredulous as he calls back "--What the fuck kind of cryptic bullshit is that? 'Who knows what'll happen?' Haven't you ever heard of day tripping?! Y'know, like the Beatles song?"

"C'mon Roger, don't worry about it. We've been allowed to go, so let's go."

Roger shuts his eyes. "... Can't believe someone could go on and live their life not knowing 'Day Tripper'. It's a fucking travesty." The guard's face remains solemn and still as the roadies traipse onto the bus and Miami starts it up again after the Queen boys sit down.

As the metal behemoth chugs away, the border guard turns back to his post, singing to himself _"She's a daaaaay tripper-- one way ticket, yeah."_

***

Heading to Springfield, Massachusetts through the flat land, recognising the fact this is classified as a city, sure, but is nothing like Chicago, Illinois or even Toronto can be a bit of a letdown. In those places lights were everywhere and there was always something going on; Chicago had that gigantic Ferris wheel on the lake pier, for instance--and sand dunes. Really. On a _lake._ There were also all of the elevated train tracks that brought people in from the suburbs for concerts, from Naperville, Glendale Heights, Park Place, Gary... (the last was apparently not ideal for the city of Chicago; Gary is rough and tough and the citizenry already has to deal with that factor aplenty on the South side). But a place like that is scary and exciting and invigorating all at once, and the band would be chuffed to play in such exciting places every time.

They've heard intriguing tidbits about the citizens of _Boston_ , mind; of it being a rowdy place with lots of excitement, home to one, or some of the premier sports teams in the country, and stomping grounds for the Irish mob. Brian sniffs and remonstrates "America's more than its stereotypes, come on, lads."

Roger rolls his eyes, John nods, forehead puckered in his usual thoughtful fashion, and Freddie pouts. "Oh but the stereotypes make things fun, darling! It's FAR more interesting to play in a city born from the people who escaped the monstrosities of the mob than to go to one because it's situated in the central part of the state so people can come from all around." The lead singer hunches forward and kicks his foot out. "Now you've gone and made this next performance boring!"

Roger and John trade glances with one another, wearing smiles because this is vintage Freddie, never wanting to he bored. Of course Brian, being Brian, tries to placate, and then Roger has an idea as he takes note of John fingering the ends of his lengthy hair. "Ooh, let's give Johnny a haircut before the concert! You can get one too Fred, whatever you like." Lifting a satirical brow at Brian, the drummer says "...of course we can't let Bri near scissors,"

"Certainly not!" Freddie crows. "He'd likely expire in an instant."

"Oh ha ha," Brian scoffs, he squints hard at his blond friend. "Really, Rog? You want to cut HAIR? How is that going to--" _make Freddie feel better,_ but the singer is already up and fluttering round John, taking hold of his locks that reach down to the small of his back almost, and fussing with them.

"...How short would you like it, Deacy? Oh, we will make you just adorable, and you'll feel so light with all this hair off!" He pats at his own fluffy hair, down to his shoulders, and smiles. "I shall get mine cut to curl up around my ears, and you should too," he enthuses. "We can probably buy some scissors and tools..."

Roger nods at Brian, pleased with himself for distracting Fred from his pouting. "Now he's gonna have a good time again," the drummer whispers. "You're welcome."

They do find a place from which to purchase haircutting tools, and Miami says they are not doing any cutting anywhere NEAR the bus-- "scissors in a moving vehicle, are you daft?" --but it's a rather nice day outside snd they've got roadies who are incredibly efficient; they spread a sheet underneath a stool to catch excess hair, and several offer advice to Freddie as well as encouragement. John is smiling, game for this new look even as it startles him to see the first lengthy piece that his dear friend cuts off. 

"There you are, Deacy dear," Freddie hands him a long tuft of his rich chestnut-brown hair "a souvenir of the tour!" Roger laughs as John holds up the hair with wide eyes. Brian puts a hand on his shoulder.

"It's... different than I expected," John says. 

"What? Getting a haircut?"

"No, the hair. I thought it would be a little darker, looks that way in a picture. Or the mirror."

Roger snorts. "Well don't worry, dark or light you still look good, mate. Not as good as ME, of course, but--" he laughs as John makes a playful swipe at his side.

"Ah ah, hold still lest I lop your ear off, darling! We mustn't have a Van Gogh situation on our hands, that would be unbearable--not to mention a mess." Freddie combs John's hair as the younger man obediently sits still. Brian, ever the perfectionist, taps his fingers to his chin and walks round, pointing out a bit that is lopsided or where a tuft is sticking out.

But it works out, and John does feel lighter. "By several pounds, as they say over here," he rumples up his hair, forgetting for a moment that it's too short to tuck behind his ears; now it just stays there.

There is a bit of a tag-team effort working to cut Freddie's hair because it is so fluffy and thick that Brian almost has heart palpitations at the thought of one of the others simply whacking pieces off. So he gets water and has Freddie bend his head to soak it before Bri combs out his black hair and gets the scissors. Not before being rampantly taunted by Roger "How are you going to cut Fred's hair when you haven't got a clue how to cut your own?"

"Oh fuck off. I'm not an idiot."

Roger laughs and then he helps, but outright refuses to have his own hair cut. "No one is touching this lusciousness, okay? No and no," he speaks sternly when Freddie in particular is crestfallen. "Besides, someone has to make Brian feel better about himself for never getting a haircut in his life." Bri sighs the sigh of the long-suffering as they pick up the hairdressing instruments and clear the area to continue their ride.

***

Springfield is not bad; Freddie is energised after his time playing hairdresser, or so it seems; he throws himself into the set that night, as he always does--but there is a difference this time; not in the least because he decided he'd like to fling over one of the speakers on the side of the stage, and even under all the flashing lights and amongst the smoke machines, Brian notices and puts one long leg and trainer up against the speaker. His curls and open vest flap as he shakes his head, silently begging "Fred, don't do it". Freddie flounces away and then as soon as Brian moves, he comes back and tips the speaker over. It makes the loudest crash possible, and the crowd starts to roar like it's out for blood.

John's eyes widen with shock and a bit of fear, and even Roger begins to grow concerned as the members of the audience get more and more rowdy. Freddie is basking in it, using his magnetic charismatic power on the stage, but it takes a lot out of him to do that. Owning an unruly crowd can be tough for anyone. But for Freddie, who puts so much of himself out into the world, who is boisterous and loud onstage-- incredibly, marvellously confident-- but deep down he's gentle and quiet and eager to please, wanting simply to love and to be loved.... Brian notices his exhaustion setting in almost before Fred seems to.

But it really hits after their bows and encore; Freddie is going off backstage and is descending stairs behind Brian, watching his dark head and white shirt entering the gloom of the theatre (because backstage areas are always painted black with fly systems and tons of wires and little emergency lights up top but that is pretty much all until one makes it to one's dressing room). 

John is behind Freddie with Roger, and the singer stumbles forward, falling into Brian's back--but Bri had sensed something, felt different, and he already turned on his heels as he stepped back to brace one foot on the floor, holding out his arms to catch hold of Freddie and stop him from falling face-first down the stairs. Brian lets out a grunt as he holds onto Fred and Roger and John are neither talking nor giggling now. Both come down and Roger automatically takes the Red Special off Bri's shoulder to hold so the guitarist can fully assist Freddie. John comes up on the singer's opposite side and peers into his face, taking his hand. Freddie smiles though he seems pale; his features are drawn. "I'm sorry my loves, I got..."

"You're exhausted, Fred," Brian says. "Not just from this show, either. Has he been keeping up with his vitamin injections, Roger?"

Freddie huffs. "You know you can ask me, dear? I'm right here, and last I checked am still living."

"But would you tell me the truth if you haven't been taking them, or d'you think I would worry, Fred?" Brian ducks his head and looks into Freddie's eyes seriously. Freddie's eyes dart away, and Brian presses his lips together. "That's what I thought. Well, come on. We're not going out anywhere, I am taking you to the green room and then back to our hotel." The tone of his voice brooks no argument. John and Roger nod.

Freddie smiles. "I love it when you take charge like this, my darling. It makes me feel all tingly." He is being cheeky, but is grateful too; Brian cares very much, after all. 

The tall man ducks his head a bit to go through the low door of their dressing room and leads Freddie over to a chaise that sits diagonal from a rather large mirror. He helps his friend sit, and then Freddie swings his legs over to pose with knees drawn up a bit and face propped on his hand. But he is so drained that said hand falls against the chaise arm and his head dips down to rest upon it too. John brings a blanket and Roger a bottle of water before Freddie opens his arms, inviting them to snuggle up with him. Which of course they do. John tucks his head into Freddie's left side and Roger's warm body leans against his legs on the right.

Brian goes round checking on equipment and then heads out to a bistro across the street advertising Italian fare, hot and cold sandwiches of various kinds, and he buys a few for Freddie and the boys. Instantly upon bringing them back, Roger notes Brian hadn't bought himself anything, and so he opens up all of their sandwiches and takes half of the vegetables from each, piling them all in an empty water cup and pushing them at Brian without a word, just an intent look, exhorting him to eat. Brian huffs and takes the food, gracing Roger with a tiny thankful smile. Rog, of course, makes a face and sticks his tongue out.

They end up hanging round the green room for hours until the last of the crew goes home, having checked and made certain it was okay for the band to stay, and Freddie snuggles up to everyone as the four of them make their way back to the hotel. He is glad to be with his boys and to have them taking care of him. Though often he does not let them do so --he must care for them, of course; it is his duty as the eldest-- tonight he is grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! I'm going to be taking a bit to write this chapter and the next-- we are on the home stretch here and I hope my research pays off. (Though I have taken an incredibly long time with the last few chapters, and I apologise.)
> 
> Please let me know if you have anything you would like to see in this story as it comes to a close, and thank you very much for reading.
> 
> *"...like the Beatles song?" Come on Roger, everybody knows the Beatles!
> 
> *Heading to Springfield, Massachusetts through the flat land, recognising the fact this is classified as a city, sure, but is nothing like Chicago, Illinois or even Toronto can be a bit of a letdown. = To any of my readers potentially from Springfield, Massachusetts, I just want to say I don't consider your city to be a letdown. This is merely commentary on the nature of touring in bigger vs smaller places :)  
> Also to any Bostonians, I'm sorry for the pervasive stereotypes you guys deal with. Can't catch a break!
> 
> My thanks to Doris for suggesting the boys take care of Freddie after a concert :)
> 
> Comments welcome <3


	12. For You And Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A performance and a surprise

The Garden.

They had been through College Park, Maryland, for their previous gig, and Roger got all excited about pretty American coeds once one of the roadies explained College Park was kind of a central point for all the Ivy Leaguers to drive for a concert--Princeton, Yale, Columbia, Johns Hopkins... And then it was Freddie who got excited when informed of the ratio between men and women at those illustrious universities. Meanwhile Brian wondered which school had the best astronomy and astrophysics programs.

But they're done with all of that now. Now, they'll be performing at Madison Square Garden in New York, New York where Sinatra played. Dylan and Hendrix and Clapton have been here. This is where the New York Knicks play, in this uniquely constructed stadium with its cable-supported roof. Lightbulbs are spaced out on each cable that stretches from the centre of the ceiling and radiates out to the edges like spokes of a wheel. At every interval between those cables and the perpendicular ones that wrap round the ceiling in circles are more lights. There are a lot of lights, but the ceiling is high and pale and seems as distant and cold as the moon and stars. Cables are black and thick, and in the lower litten area around the stage, lights are tinted deep blue; there are a few swooping white spotlights. The ceiling is so far away that everything beneath it appears small.

Brian May has always felt small. When learning about Space, one knows and becomes fully aware that the Earth is a pale blue speck in a galaxy thousands of light-years across; in the Universe made up of billions and trillions of other galaxies, with googleplexes of solar systems and stars and planets. He is used to feeling small and insignificant, and yet, he had felt loved and supported in life and at home. He was--he had not been small then.

But now he is alone save for his band. Chrissie is at home, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. She seems so far away, and his parents even further. He wonders if he shall see them again, and whether or not they will be able to see him as anything other than a bafflement, a failure, a disappointment. He does not know and cannot tell, but here, in this gigantic arena with its endless echoes and distant lights--as Brian strums his guitar and prepares himself to sing, he feels absolutely enormous. He fills the stage and the space with room to grow more along with his bandmates. They soar with him, around him, above him, and below. The boys help Brian and carry him along, lifting him up with music as he does them. And in this space with so many spectators Brian feels like he's flying free, soaring and blazing through the sky. And he loves it.

***

Freddie is in his element and Roger is elevated behind him, long hair flying as he beats his drums two tiers high, the sound echoing and re-echoing. Throws John off a bit at first, at least until Freddie whirls past and lifts his chin indicating that the bassist might want to move up a tier above the main stage to be closer to Roger and hear the beat to keep time. John nods, grins, and does so, eyes following Freddie's lithe body in his favourite harlequin suit underneath a leather jacket with pointed shoulder pads. Freddie squeezes Deaks' arm in affection and excitement. This is most certainly a marvellous place, echoes be damned!

John hopes that Bri's parents are here and enjoying it. He had heard from Miami that they were planning to come; Fred's (in turns) soft entreaties and sharp commands over the phone must have done the trick. And John Reid arranged for air fare and a nice hotel, giving no pushback other than "--As long as you lot keep making money, we are dandy." That had sent up a tiny red flag in John's head, but he knows they can contend with Reid if anything happens. He is nothing close to Sheffield, after all.

Roger has always got the best seat in the house. He knows that is the case during every concert: up behind his drumset, surveying the world in front, the crowd of course with their energy and waves and screams; but he's also in the best place to watch the boys. 

Right now Freddie is running across the stage, bending and gyrating along with 'Sweet Lady'--or Brian's intoxicated song, as Roger privately refers to it. Bri had got all prim and prissy once, said it was a homage to the style of Robert Plant and Led Zeppelin, but the drummer is sure he came up with that only after Rog pointed out the absolutely ridiculous cheese line. ("And you asked if I was joking with 'I'm In Love With My Car'. Well I hope _you're_ joking with this!") He wasn't, of course; hadn't been, and so they all backed him-- Roger included. Even if it's a song he despises, in this case only because he feels it's at least as bloody ridiculous as his song but no one else pushed back about it, once it's on the album and recorded and out, he will be loyal to it and to the band. And yet. And still. _What kind of lyric is "you've got me on a lead" anyway? A fucking idiotic one. Even if it's metaphorical._

But he doesn't want to let Brian down, and besides once the album's out they are all loyal to it. Plus Bri is so lively tonight--he catches Roger's eyes and smiles before legitimately _winking_ at Freddie and running, twirling across the stage to stand beside and lean against John. It is truly a sight to behold; and yet again Roger is certain he's got the best seat in the bloody place.

Brian is a whirlwind tonight, he is solemn as an angel from an early-Renaissance painting but oh, how his fingers fly. Freddie kneels and stretches out beside him, flinging his head back and whirling around the guitarist with his heart aglow. He adores seeing Bri like this and to be here himself, feeding off the energy of the crowd and expressing it back, sending it out to dear Deaks and Rog and Brian as he gives his enjoyment and love freely to the world. The entirety of this arena is shaking like some sort of Roman coliseum, and Freddie feels that deep emotion, that pure almost animistic joy--it is as if the very cables and instruments are feeling joy and sending it out into the space. Freddie has always thought the soul of the world was love, and he feels it here and now on this stage with his dear boys. It lifts him up and makes him soar, and he is so thankful; his ever-rich tones grow even warmer with feeling as he sings.

They switch up their basic setlist a bit, and the lights come down to shine solely on Fred and Brian as the latter puts away his Red Special for an acoustic guitar, settling onto a stool beside a microphone and shifting its mesh closer to his lips. "Hello, Madison Square Garden! How are you feeling tonight?" He beams as the crowd roars. "Good! Happy to be here in New York City with you all. This is an extraordinary evening." Swallowing as he hears the crowd's tumult in response, Brian clears his throat and swipes underneath his nose. "Well, erm, we're going to take things down for just a bit now, and sing you a couple of sweet songs. This is one written by Mr. Freddie Mercury from our fourth album, and it's called 'Love Of My Life'."

More cheers and whoops emanate from the crowd as Brian bends his head and strums out the introduction of the song, fingers gliding across his guitar strings as they'd done over the harp he had in studio. And Freddie's beautiful voice croons as he moves to stand close: _"Love of my life, you've hurt me. You've broken my heart and now you'll leave me. Love of my life, can't you see? Bring it back, bring it back, don't take it away from me because you don't know what it means to me."_

Brian feels his eyes misting over as he--and John and Roger in the darkness behind--harmonise with Freddie. The guitarist feels a sharp pang in his chest, in his heart, but his fingers flow nevertheless, and the sound of his guitar soars with Fred's voice up into the ceiling and out and beyond, filling the entire space.

_"...When I grow older I will be there by your side to remind you how I still love you, 'cause I still love you--"_ Brian glances at Freddie, feeling a deep personal tug of longing fill his heart. This is one of his dear friend's quiet moments--Fred's deep brown eyes are limpid and enormous, they showcase all of his capacity for love, all of his grace, and the guitarist is mesmerised. Freddie is not singing for effect; he is singing from the heart and he's working his arse off: _"--Hurry back, hurry back, don't take it away from me because you don't know what it means to me! Love of my life, love of my life, ooooh yeahhh."_ The plea in his voice causes Brian's heart to skip a beat. Or several. High and achy and clear as a bell, Freddie's voice captures and encapsulates Brian's own agony and longing--over his parents, and his choices, and this life he leads. He has to lift one arm to his face and wipe his eyes with one pale silk sleeve after Fred finishes holding his last note and Bri strums his final chord.

The crowd is roaring, up on its feet, and Brian feels a shock--not unpleasant, but nonetheless startling--as if he has come out of a dream. But no, this is reality and it is absolutely stunning. Astounding. John and Rog come to the front of the stage as the lights are brought back up. "Thank you so much, my darlings!" Freddie cries, blowing a kiss to the crowd.

"You are too kind," Brian adds feelingly. "I hope you'll continue to indulge us as we bring the entire band to the front of the stage for this one. It's called '39. Feel free to clap and get up and move around if you want to."

"YEAH!" Roger crows as he pulls his bass drum out to rest on the floor by his standing microphone, situating the foot pedal and rattling his tambourine. He grins over at Brian, entire face alight as the guitarist begins strumming a jaunty folksy tune. John comes in with perfect timing on the double bass.

_"In the year of thirty-nine assembled here the Volunteers in the days when lands were few; here the ship sailed out..."_

***

After the conclusion of the set Brian is gently plucking his Old Lady's strings and checking her tuning when he hears several sets of footsteps come up to him. His blood is still buzzing from being here, in the Garden, with all of its history. He expects the presences to be fans, they come backstage sometimes. Whether because Roger sees someone or Freddie does, Miami is often exhorted to find and bring people back after shows. Dear patient man; Brian sometimes wonders how he stands doing all that he does for them. Bri now turns with a real, bright, toothy smile on his face to hear "That's quite some guitar."

"Thank you. Yes, she's--" The guitarist, now facing the owner of the voice directly, loses his voice in an undignified squeak as he stares into the eyes of his father for the first time in nearly eight years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are at the Garden, my loves! I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> * ... said it [Sweet Lady] was a homage to the style of Robert Plant and Led Zeppelin = this is not a comment based on anything other than my own thoughts while listening to the song. It has a very Zepp-like feel to it I think, similar to songs like 'Whole Lotta Love', 'Black Dog', or 'Travelling Riverside Blues'. What do you think?
> 
> Thanks to a comment I switched Rog's drum to bass from snare. I know nothing about drum types, lol. Many thanks for setting me straight Kate :)
> 
> Ooooh Brian has seen his dad! What will happen next?? :-O
> 
> Comments welcome <3


	13. Hey Darlin', I Can Remember

"D-Da?" Brian squeaks, feeling like a frightened little boy and hating it. He hates sounding weak, almost despondent even after all of this time.... He's wanted to be strong; he's imagined when he would speak to his father again, thought about what he would say to him, to tell him that he loves him but that he doesn't require his pride or approval, he loves what he's doing, and...and all of it goes out of his head.

Roger's head jerks up from where he has just come down the steps behind the drum tiers, several metres away from Brian. But he hears his friend's shock and distress, and flipping his sticks he whistles to John and jerks his head at Freddie and then toward Brian. All three of them instantly come together and congregate around Bri, facing his father. To face both of his parents--Brian's mum is here too; she stands beside her husband, looking small and holding onto his arm, grasping it tightly.

Brian has absolutely no idea what to do. His heart feels as if it might pound right out of his chest-- the adrenaline rush from the show is part of the reason for that feeling, of course, but his fingers tremble as his lips do and he gasps out "You're, you're here. You both--how did you know to come?" _And why? Why are you here?_ He wants to ask but fears that will sound too accusing. He looks over to Miami, who had led his parents here and who remains, now standing back a bit. His face crinkles as he gives Brian an encouraging nod from his place behind Bri's parents.

Harold May dips his head to indicate his wife's presence beside him and then nods towards the three men clustered around Brian. "We came due to your mother and ...this is the band, yes?" His shoulders stiffen as he says _band_ , and Brian nearly shuts his eyes in preparation for the disapproving diatribe sure to follow.

But "Yes we are," Freddie speaks up stolidly, to Brian's surprise. Fred often acts shyer, meeker around parental sorts of authority figures. Yet tonight his eyes are up and flashing and his gaze is firm even as he smiles in his typical gracious manner. "Lovely you could come; I'm Freddie Mercury," he introduces himself.

"...Your son is a good man, and an amazing musician," John speaks with quiet surety in his turn as he shakes Harold's hand and bows his head politely to Ruth. "I'm John. Deacon. It's nice to meet you, Mr and Mrs May."

"--Wish I could say the same," Roger's heated voice snarls "but I don't know why it's taken this bloody long--your son is brilliant, and no matter what he does, you ought to be proud of him!"

Brian does close his eyes now. Oh god, Roger.... The last thing he needs is for his father to stalk off in self-righteous fury or his mum to suffer another nervous breakdown. "I'm sorry Dad, Mum."

"No, son," Harold speaks gruffy, clearing his throat and rubbing his fingers across his mouth and chin in a manner familiar to the band. Straightening the suit he is wearing, the father pivots to face Roger directly. Roger's chin rises in response. "You're Rog Taylor. You've known my son a long time."

"Yeah I have," Roger allows, taken aback by the lack of disgust or vitriol in the man's reply. He fully expected to tick him off, and that would have been fine; Roger is always ready for a shouting match. But...is that a flash of regret he spots in the older man's eyes? "Yes," Roger amends. "...We were in a band together at uni before forming this one. Sir." Belatedly offering the last word in an attempt at respect or perhaps in couth, Rog softens an infinitesimal amount. Just because he can tell he did see some regrets in Harold's expression, and because he knows that if he got into an actual row right now he is aware of how much that would hurt Brian, and he couldn't bear to hurt Brian.

Meanwhile Brian is no longer really listening to the conversation, as he has been arrested, frozen in place by the fact that his father had referred to Roger as Rog. Meaning he knows enough about him to be aware of one of his nicknames. Bri glances at his mum, who gives him a loving, though seemingly brittle nevertheless, smile. The expression on her face as she cocks her head is along the lines of _see? He asked questions, and learned. He never stopped caring about you._ Brian's eyes fill and with a single choking sob he reaches out to his mother and puts his arms around her, pulling her close for a hug.

Ruth May blinks and smiles, letting out a little exclamation as she reaches up and strokes back her son's long curls from crown to nape, murmuring in his ear as if he were still a wee one. "Hush, there now, Brian," she soothes. His shoulders are shaking as he pulls her in and dips his face beside hers to feel one soft cheek brush against his lean one. He inhales her safe warm mother smell, that soap she always uses.

And then he feels that she has grown thin, and she's shaking a little. Their years of silence had almost been too much to bear. For them both. For them all. "Oh, Mum...," Brian splays his fingers across her back, holding tight as he trembles in agony, in sorrow, in shame. He had caused her so much grief and worry and pain. He and his father both. "I am so sorry."

But "No," she whispers, drawing back a bit and cupping his face. "Never apologise to me, honey lamb. I--" she glances over, looks to his father, who is now talking to John about the electrical components of an AMPLIFIER, of all things. Good ol' Deacy is explaining as Freddie quietly looks on, and there was very likely a mention of the business components of concerts and touring, as Miami has moved over to speak with them as well. Harold seems to accept him, nodding seriously and listening intently when he speaks. Ruth bites her lip and searches for words, fingers trailing along her son's face as she withdraws her hand from it and whispers, squeezing Brian's hand "...It has just--it's simply been a long several years." Brian nods in instant agreement.

"Tell me about it."

Roger, hair shining golden and eyes bright in the half-light, making him look like some fey creature or Greek god, comes quietly over now that he and Harold have finished sizing each other up. "Mrs May, ma'am?" His husky voice is sweet as he offers his hand to her. "We haven't gotten introduced, but I'm Roger."

"I know exactly who you are," Ruth speaks with warmth and lets out a hiccuping little laugh that started as a sob. Rather than taking the drummer's offered hand, however, she wraps her arms around him and pulls him into a hug. Roger's eyes widen and he looks up at Brian for confirmation on whether or not this is okay, and then as Brian dips his chin with a smile, the drummer's features grow gentler than his friend has ever seen them before and he holds Brian's mother tight. 

The guitarist lowers his eyes, listening as his mum murmurs into his friend's feathery hair. Brian cannot make out precisely what is said, but Rog responds "That's all right," and "He does a pretty fair job looking after me. After all of us. Probably learned from you." Then he laughs and shakes out his hair "Yes, it's a constant battle to get him to eat enough! I dunno how you did it."

Brian rolls his bleary eyes and then wipes them. He is joined in the shadows by Freddie, who takes and squeezes his hand. "Are you quite well, Brian my darling?"

Gripping onto Fred's palm and fingers tightly with his own, "I... don't know," Brian admits honestly. This is such a shock.... "Hopefully I --we-- will be."

Fred leans the comforting weight of his head against Brian's shoulder. With quiet conviction suffusing his rich voice, the singer utters "I know that you will. I am certain of it."

Brian leans into Freddie and closes his eyes, savouring their closeness and finally feeling and allowing his heart to slow down. After a time Fred strokes his arm before shifting his head away, and Brian's chest clenches, seizes up as he opens his eyes to look in his father's face again. Freddie nods grandly to Harold and he nods back, lifting his hand. "Just a moment," he speaks as the singer attempts to flit away in order to bequeath upon the father and son a bit of privacy. "That song you did," Harold added, clearing his throat. "'Love Of My Life'? The one Brian said that you wrote." Freddie nods, lips covering his teeth, folding over them as Brian tenses and stands stiffly, ramrod-straight. What will his father say? "That piece was-- stupendous, riveting. And Brian," Harold looks at his son and with a heaviness in his tone and in his eyes, as if the following words are weighing him down somehow: "Now I understand," He speaks slowly as he looks into Brian's eyes "I understand why you felt that you needed to do this."

Brian does not make a reply; he cannot speak. His heart and eyes and throat are all full. He hears Freddie thank his father before speaking his name sweetly. Brian takes a breath and anchors himself in place. His heart is singing even as his mind whirls in disbelief, and he wishes he had the balls to say something even remotely akin to _I told you so, Dad, my music means something._ But all he can force past his now desert-dry lips is "Thank you, Dad. And thank you for coming. It means a lot." That will have to be enough, at least for the present moment.

If Brian ever attempts to say anything more, he will either have to be incredibly intoxicated or utterly exhausted, neither of which are states of being conducive to conversation, particularly with his father.

"...I see you're still using the Red Special," Harold says now.

Brian shoots him the briefest heart-shattered smile as his mother steps back over. "Right, yes. I've never stopped using her, she's pretty wonderful." _She's the best thing I've ever made, ever done, and I could only create her because you helped me. I couldn't have done without your help. And I need you, Dad. I still need you and I need your help. Can't you see that?_ Of course Brian says none of this, he can articulate none of it in words aloud. But the sentiments shine through in his eyes, and in his music. Which his father has heard. 

Harold's hand trembles as he smooths his suit jacket and nods at his son, understanding the words Brian said, and perhaps some that he did not. He then breaks the taut air with a question: "Are you ever going to cut your hair, Brian?" There is a gasp from Freddie and Roger guffaws as John lifts his eyes to stare at the elder May. 

Freddie spots Brian relaxing in places that he had never even noticed were stiff as the dear man spouts something off about his hair giving him power as Samson's did, and said power would be lost if he were to cut it. His father chuckles, and a light fills Brian's face in response, and as it does so with a pang akin to grieving Freddie notes how long that light has been absent. Dear steadfast, patient, sweet, loyal Brian. If one was not looking one would never know how much he hurt. How difficult it truly must have been for him to hear anyone talk about pride from families when his own had been fractured so surely because--as he thought--of him. Here with them on tour and when recording he had bickered with Roger, comforted John, raged on Freddie's behalf...and yet, not until he voiced it in a torrent of worry over Fred himself had the singer gotten any inkling that within Brian's head and heart something was very wrong.

But now it has been righted, at least a bit. Freddie does not possess a way to see into the future, as much as he would like to know how all will work out for his dear friend. This man who means so much to him, and who he so desperately longs to see happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very big moment for Bri so I'm taking a bit to write it all out. I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> *"I understand why you felt that you needed to do this." = Through research I learned that Brian's father did say he understood why Brian needed to do this i.e. to play music, to be a rock star, etc after coming to Queen's Madison Square Garden show and hearing 'Love Of My Life' among other things. 
> 
> Here is a wonderful interview that includes Brian's recounting of his father's words: https://youtu.be/XBm1Qfpa_nY
> 
> Comments are welcome and appreciated as always!


	14. Home of the Free!

Brian stands in darkness in the Garden's arena, shifting about awkwardly after some more chat when he is exhorted to go with his parents to supper. They all need to eat, of course; and he looks a bit like a lost puppy when he asks and the boys decline to join him. "Go on, darling--have a good meal and a chat with your parents!" Freddie enthuses with an encouraging smile. "Rest assured we won't be leaving for the next show without you." There is the unspoken sentiment hanging in air that the Mays ought to talk more, or at least attempt to, and Brian nods, eyes shifting down.

Roger takes note of the set of the guitarist's shoulders and his heaving breaths and swiftly offers "We can certainly come out for drinks with you afterwards, though, Bri." He looks to Freddie and John, the former who nods rapidly and the latter smiles, eyes crinkling as he gives Brian a thumbs-up.

"We'll certainly wait up, love. Go have fun with your family." 

Shuffling his feet and pulling on his jacket after carefully latching his guitar case, Brian pats down his hair with obvious nerves before adding, utterly serious "You're my family too, lads."

Roger huffs fondly and puts a hand on Brian's forearm. "And we'll be here for you, Brian. Always." Fred and Deacy both agree resoundingly. Roger gives Brian an encouraging shove. "Now go _on,_ mate--give your father a piece of your mind."

Brian shudders. "Oh no, I'm just...I can't do that, Rogie. I'm just so relieved he CAME."

Roger's eyes twinkle with mischief as he begins smirking, proud. "Well, you're welcome." He twirls his index finger to indicate himself, John, and Freddie and the fact: "This was our doing. With Miami and Reid's help."

Brian's face goes white and in his shock he is pop-eyed. " _What?!_ " John elbows Roger and Freddie rolls his eyes as Brian's curls fly round his head like black snakes as he whips his face to look at each of them in turn. "Why would you--why did--?"

"Take deep breaths my love," Freddie advises, putting his hands on Brian's cheeks and stroking his thumbs over his friend's skin gently. "Why wouldn't we? You've been so sad, my dear. So woeful, and we wanted to do something about it."

"And after you were a right prick to me I realised it's because you were lonely," Roger speaks up bluntly. His blue eyes beg for Brian to understand his reasoning, though he had spoken rather baldly about all of it. "...You said some things and I started thinking, could we ask your parents to come?" All the band glances over to where Harold and Ruth are speaking to Miami, Harold glancing around at the roadies and crew moving by, sniffing a bit. Ruth's eyes are large and she is taking everything in. Lifting one shoulder, the drummer adds "So I asked John to call Reid, I talked to Miami,"

"--And I spoke to your mother, dear," finishes Freddie. "She was incredibly lovely about all of it. Touched that we would go to such lengths for you."

Brian's eyes are wet and baffled and broken as he swipes underneath one, pressing Freddie's hand where it still rests against his cheek. "But why, Fred?" He croaks out. "Why'd you do it all? I don't..."

"You deserve it," John says firmly, his voice quiet as ever but his tone is serious and sharp. He steps closer to Brian and the tall man looks at him. "You do, because you're lovely, Brian. You do so much for us, for everyone around you. And you deserve happiness." The bassist gulps and adds, his voice creaking a little with emotion and daring "...And we wanted to give it to you, because we love you." 

Roger nods, puts an arm around John, and faces Brian with the widest possible grin. "Couldn't've said it any better myself."

"We're family, my dear," Freddie says, letting go of his friend's face at last only to kiss him on the cheek, reminding the guitarist what he himself had said. Brian's chin trembles, he nods, and the four men come together and wrap each other in a group hug.

***

Brian hands his recased guitar to Roger and makes the drummer promise to guard her with his life before joining his parents and following them out of the Garden, reluctantly leaving the lads, the crew, and the roadies to clear up extension cords and microphones and speakers and amps. John in particular helps with the wiring, rolling cords properly so they do not split and risk shorts or sparks during the following gigs when plugged in. Roger gets everyone's instruments packed and readied to return to the bus as Miami makes nice with choir directors and arena workers and everyone else who comes up to him.

"...Believin' he's the manager, look at that," Roger pauses beside John as the bassist holds an enormous roll of black cords striped with fluorescent tape, readying them to return to electronics cases. John's brows rise into his fluffy bangs as he peers round Rog to see Miami making nice with some seemingly pushy people. Press, by the looks of them-- luckily he and Roger are backstage in the darkness.

"Wow, how patient he is," John utters.

Roger grins, flicking his tongue and waggling his eyebrows. "I know! It comes from dealing with us don'tcha think?"

The bassist's squinty gaze flicks from their accountant to the black bin where he is to place the extension cords and then back to Miami. "... I'd say that's very likely, mostly to the even-keeled nature that you possess in abundance, Roger." John deadpans. "Miami probably--" he is going to continue to lay it on thicker, but a spurt of giggles eclipses all words until he is bending forward, practically _howling_ with laughter. By his side Roger at the outset affects disapproval, but in the end he's laughing too. 

"Oh, sure, and Miami's gonna come back here in a minute thanking everything those reporters talked less than John Deacon, god that guy--what a chatterbox!" John's eyes form slits and his face crinkles into wrinkles like a wizened walnut's as he laughs.

Freddie, who had been speaking to some of the crew members --boys-- about avenues open to party after performing, comes over to John and Roger with a devilish gleam in his eyes. They can both instantly tell he will be having a good time in a short while, but he does come over and swears he'll be back at the hotel by eleven pm to wait for Brian-- ("I would say ten pm but you know how timely I am, darlings.") Rog and John plan to watch for and waylay Brian upon his return from supper. Well, Roger nominates John for this task as he swiftly spots a girl he would like to get to know better the moment they make it out to the street. 

John shakes his head fondly and resigns himself to remaining in the hotel bar for the entirety of the evening; Roger has the key to their hotel room, and he and John are sharing this time. Miami had booked two rooms for them, which is lovely because they have more space... And yet there are times like this when no matter how many rooms they've got, there needs to be one more.

So John proceeds to the bar. There is a payphone just outside in the hotel foyer, so he calls Veronica and begins aching the instant he is connected and hears her voice. He tells her how they're doing and talks about the Garden before asking how she and Robert fare. His serious two-year-old son gets on the phone with a "hullo Daddy" because Ronnie had called him over to say hi to his father. John smiles so hard he feels he could burst, tells Robert he loves him and Veronica that he will call again soon. After she says goodbye, and that she misses him bunches, and loves him so so much--then John is losing it, sinking down onto an upholstered accent bench outside a _bar,_ for goodness' sake. 

Until somehow, by a miracle, a familiar gait comes up to him, a gentle voice says "John," and there is Brian striding over looking hale and stable and settled. For once the concern in his face and eyes is not anxious, merely compassionate. He sits next to the bassist and puts his hand round his back and neck, rubbing the nape of it just below John's shortened hair. Cold from the February night rises off his long coat and dark hair as the guitarist leans in, but his hands are warm in comparison as he hauls the younger man against his side, chin resting on John's hair, which is soft against his skin. 

He sits with Deacy and says nothing, simply rubbing his shoulders, fingers moving down from John's neck. People are passing them by through the foyer to enter and to leave, and eventually Brian stands, pulling John to his feet. "C'mon Deacy, d'you want a drink? Let's get a drink."

John nods and swallows hard, blinking and rubbing the back of his right hand across his eyes and cheeks as he stands as well. Bri keeps an arm around his friend's shoulders as they go up to the bar. He orders two drinks when John nods to what he wants; and then waits for them as the bassist finds a far table, tucked into the back of the room behind a wall that houses--of all things-- a jukebox. 

Several sprightly giggling fans accost the guitarist at the bar as he waits, and he gamely, gladly signs napkins and shirts and photos before lifting the pair of drinks high and spinning around the group. "--They may come over to our table later, Johnny," Brian teases and smiles at John as he strides over to him. The bassist presses his fingers against his face to mask a groan. The group has disappeared from sight, however, and Brian assures "Ah don't worry, they didn't see where you sat down." John sweeps his arm across his forehead in a gesture of elaborate relief, gracing the other man with a wan little smile as Bri passes his drink across the table before sitting. Rolling his own glass back and forth between his palms, the guitarist bows his head and clears his throat before asking softly "John, mate, how are you doing? All right?" And he instantly wants to kick himself. How stupid a question IS that, clearly John isn't all right --he had just been sobbing in the entryway of their hotel. You're a blooming idiot, Brian.

But before the other man can feel idiotic for long: "I was--I just talked to Ronnie," the bassist responds. "She put our boy on the phone, and it just--him saying hello and goodbye, and she said how much she misses me...it, he's two, my Robert's two years old and he's already saying 'so long' to his father for months and months at a time! I dunno that he even remembers what I look like; and Veronica, she's so strong, I dunno how she does it all...." John gulps his drink and sniffs. "But I remember Robert as clear as a bell. The first time I held him in my arms." He is smiling into the middle distance with wet eyes gleaming, seeing his son again; and Brian thinks about his own father. After their meal and talks tonight, he wonders what his dad will consider when he thinks of him: the wide-eyed, gangly, star loving little boy, or the tall musician with the flying fingers and the singing heart?

Brian shakes his head to come back; he should remain present in this moment in order to comfort John. But dear Deacy smiles and wipes his eyes, leaning in a bit before saying "But enough about me, Brian; you know how much I enjoy talking about myself." Brian laughs. "How did the rest of the evening go with your parents?"

"Oh, I--it went fine, yeah." Brian sweeps back his curls with dancing fingertips and John simply gazes with a cocked head, deep eyes studying his friend. Brian sighs. "We--we still have a long way to go towards forgiving each other and... growing close again. But tonight, it was--cordial." _For the most part._ The guitarist sips his drink and looks away from the other's searching gaze, but John reaches out and takes Brian's hand, stilling his restless digits as they skitter across his hair and face and then the table like frantic spiders. Pressing Bri's hand with his stable, solid grasp, the bassist catches and holds his gaze. Nothing is said because naught need be; loyalty and understanding and love shine from John's ever-open expressive countenance. 

Feeling a lump form in his throat, Brian May squeezes his bandmate's fingers in return, and in companionable silence the two men sit and drink together in the back of the bar, waiting for Freddie and Roger to join them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, my loves! I wanted to end with Brian and John because they're so lovely together. Please let me know what you want to see/if you want to read more. I am open to suggestions as I wrap this tour story up. I have had an absolute blast writing it and want to thank you all for reading from the bottom of my heart :)
> 
> Comments always welcome <3

**Author's Note:**

> Includes lyrics from John Mellancamp's song 'Pink Houses' as the titles of each chapter and the overall work


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